


Ex Aurae

by Anon_E_Miss



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Amalgii, Child Abuse, Dark Praxus, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mech Preg, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-01-24 08:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: When the Empire of Praxus conquered the province of Polihex they uncovered a strange species living alongside the Polihexians. The Amalgii have a bite that gives Praxians a feeling of euphoria. All found are enslaved. After Prowl is prescribed the venom , dubbed Ex Aurae by its Praxian discoverers for his crippling helm aches, his brother Barricade buys him slaves when he refuses to fill the prescription his medic gave him. Prowl has no use for slaves, Jazz has less use for masters. But this master is different than any the Amalgus has had before. Jazz has free range of the habsuite, and his master's credit chips. Finally, Jazz might finally have the opening he needs to bring his bitlets to freedom, if his master doesn't manage to kill himself first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really should work on something I already have going but writing's been hard, and I'll write anything so long as I can put more than two words together for it.
> 
> Mind the fragging tags, 'kay? This thing is going to be both dark and fluffy, and neither of my lovely mechs will come out of this unchanged.

It was Jazz’s fifth time on the auction block, but the atmosphere felt that much bleaker this time, this time he had the Twins. The scars on his protoform spoke to his defiance in the face of his Praxian overlords, and his dozen escape attempts, though the last of these scars were vorns old by now. With the emergence of the mechlings, the Amalgus had been forced to cooperate with this last Master. Their originator had not survived emergence, he was all that they had, though he had not had any say in their creation, they were innocent, and he would protect them. If that meant bending to the will of some wretched Praxian, so be it. His obedience to his old master had not been enough to keep their place in his stable, the slagtard had lost some credits, Jazz was not privy as to how, and he had been forced to send his entire collection of Amalgii back to the Auction for a quick sale. The bitter cold of frigus was only just fading, and the early saltus air nipped at his bare protoform. As a mech who had emerged in the desert, the cold felt particularly vile. His bitlets held tight to his legs, leeching what heat from him that they could. Jazz would have preferred to curl up with them, to use his greater size to protect them from the chill, but he had to stand, all the slaves had to stand, for joors. Those that tried to sit and rest, for even a few nanokliks were harshly disciplined, electro whips lashed their backs. At one point the slave had been defiant enough to take the lashing, too proud to break for any overseer or Master. But he had the Twins now, it would be so easy for an overseer to rip them from him, as long as Jazz had them, he would cooperate. If they were taken from him, all bets were off. The Amalgus had no intention of dying a slave, though they had taken a great deal from him, they had not broken Jazz’s spark, or his will.

He did not look out at the crowd, no Jazz kept his optics down. Looking a Praxian helm on was a good way to earn a whipping. The overseers would not remove the Twins before they beat him, they would not care if their lash struck one of those little bitties, thus the Amalgus showed his captors deference they were not owed. When a perspective bidder wanted a better look at him, Jazz spread his legs, and displayed his equipment, for another he turned and bent to display his aft. With every pose, rage and humiliation flared in his spark, but the slave obeyed every instruction. Jazz did not know how long he stood on the block, his chronometre had been removed long again, he could only guess the date or time. A light flashed above his helm, this was it, they had been sold. Finally, the progenitor could sit. His mechlings climbed into his lap, and snuggled in, their little frames shivering with the cold. It was joors still before an overseer came around to his cage, with a new strange Praxian at his side. From the insignia on the dark Praxian’s doorwings, his new Master was an Enforcer, and Jazz felt a wave of dread. Law enforcement was a strenuous function, both physically and mentally, and Enforcers often took out their frustrations on their slaves. They could not beat their suspects or prisoners, but they could do whatever they wanted to their Amalgii. Even the act of killing another Praxian’s slave only amounted to a slap on the servo, maybe a lawsuit, stealing credits earned a higher charge. Jazz stood, lifting his mechlings into his arms as he did. Even though he wanted to retreat to the back of the cage, the Amalgus stepped forward. His new master towered over him, a full helm and shoulder taller, and with his heavy armour, and Jazz’s nakedness, he made the slave look helpless and small. He was helpless, he was small.

“You can bring them to the detailer to be prepared for your house,” the overseer spoke to his Master. “For a small fee, of course.”

“I didn’t buy them for my house,” the Enforcer replied, voice gruff and impatient. “I bought them for my brother, the Lord of Law.”

“Well, we are honoured for his patronage,” the other Praxian demurred. “Here are their papers, if the Lord of Law isn’t satisfied, he’s welcome to return them with no fee. No slaves can leave the Auction without branding.”

“Of course,” the war-frame said, Jazz thought he was being sarcastic, but it did not seem like the overseer noticed. His last brand had been buffed from his protoform when he had been put on the Auction block, the Twins had not yet been branded. There would be no escaping it now. Jazz wanted to scream. The path between the cells let directly to the Auction’s blacksmith, and the progenitor could not help but hold his bitlets just a little tighter. He could not save them from this, and it grieved him. They waited until the smith was done with his current victim. Based on the mech’s struggle, this Amalgus was a recent capture. Jazz did not know why any of his kin ventured beyond their hidden city. If one made the mistake of leading a hunting party back to Doradus, the Pit the long time slave had experienced would be for nothing. When the hot brand was pushed into the young slave’s chassis, the poor mech screamed. Terrified, the Twins whimpered and clung tightly to their progenitor, all he could do to comfort them was flood his field with affection, the Amalgus did not dare speak.

“Slave, can you hold them for it?” The Enforcer asked. Though the idea made Jazz’s tank roll over, he loathed the idea of any of these monsters touching his creations even more. He nodded.

“Yes, Master.”

Enforcer Barricade unceremoniously took Sideswipe from Jazz’s arms, and nodded to Jazz to hold Sunstreaker still for the blacksmith. His every protocol screamed for the Amalgus to snatch his creation back, but he knew he would likely lose a servo if he tried it. As he laid his first emerged on the slab, he flooded their bonded with love, Sunstreaker cocked his helm back, and smiled at his procreator. Then he screamed, Sideswipe shrieked in sympathetic agony. The smith did not even flinch. He held the iron against the wailing bitlet’s protoform for several nanokliks before he lifted it off, revealing the outline of a shield and star. The smell of scorched sentio-metallikato filled Jazz’s olfactor senses, he was certain he would purge, but somehow Jazz’s tank held. While the brand was still fresh, the smith pour gold and red powder over the brand, it merged with the melted protoform. After he brushed the excess powder away, the blacksmith nodded with satisfaction, the Amalgus wanted nothing more than to kill him.

“Apply nanite paste,” Master Barricade ordered, the blacksmith raised his doorwings, a gesture Jazz had learned meant surprise.

“That is for personal use,” the slagtard said.

“Apply the fragging paste,” his Master, of the moment, snarled, emphasizing each glyph. “The Lord of Law doesn’t like shoddy work.”

“Of course, Sir,” the blacksmith replied, his smile looked more like a grimace.

He smooth the nanite gel over Sunstreaker’s chassis, the bitlet’s screams choked off into a whimper. Jazz was only able to cuddle him for a nanoklik before the Enforcer took him away and deposited Sideswipe in the Amalgus’ arms. Having witnessed his brother’s branding, and felt some of his pain, the younger twin resisted his progenitor. But of course Jazz was stronger, and he held his bitlet firmly to the slab as the blacksmith lowered the brand to his second bitty’s chassis. Behind Jazz’s back Master Barricade cursed as Sunstreaker screech with outrage as Sideswipe screamed with pain. As it had been with his brother, the smith kept the iron against his shuddering chassis for several kliks before he removed it, and pour on the powder, and as with before, the smith applied nanite gel to Sideswipe’s brand, though clearly begrudgingly. It was the progenitor’s turn now, he wondered only a nanoklik what to do with Sideswipe when the Enforcer lifted him off the slab, and out of Jazz’s servos. Knowing full well there was no escape, Jazz hopped onto the slab and laid back. His spark already felt like it had been branded twice, and the searing burn of the brand did not compare. Pride kept the Amalgus’ screams silent, and the whole process was over in under a klik. When the blacksmith turned to put away his tools, Master Barricade’s engine made a long and angry rumble.

“Gel for this one too,” he ordered. This time, the smith openly glowered at the buyer, but he still obeyed. The nanite gel instantly soothed the worst of Jazz’s pain, leaving only a dull but persistent throb.

“Thank you for the patronage,” the smith bit out, Master Barricade gave him a smile that was all denta.

“Slave, we’re done here,” he declared, as gruff as before.

As soon as Jazz was on his peds, the Twins were dropped in his arms, apart from the brands, they were none the worst for wear. At least the Enforcer had not squeezed them too hard. They clung to their progenitor, little intakes hiccuping every few venitlations. Jazz bathed them in his field, keeping it tight to his frame. It was vital his EM field never brush a master’s. He followed the dark Praxian out of the smithy, helm bowed low. Jazz nuzzled his creations, glyphlessly begging their forgiveness. His buyer led him to a transport, and the Amalgus stepped into the back. Like a trailer for a mechanimal, there was no seat. Familiar with this indignity, Jazz sat in the farthest corner, and held his creations to him. This Enforcer was anomalous to him. Barricade was gruff, and impatient but he had used a gentle servo on the mechlngs of a slave. If their new master was meant to be this Praxian’s brother, maybe he would not be so awful as the last, or the one before, or he could be all the worse. The journey from the Auction took only a few breams. Jazz remained seated as he waited for the trailer’s doors to open. If they found him standing, they might decide he was laying in wait, ready to attack, the Amalgus had suffered broken struts for that mistake already. Master Barricade beckoned him out of the trailer, doorwings flicking up and down, visibly impatient. Hoping to avoid this mech’s lash, or his shock stick, Jazz hurriedly climbed out of the trailer. His buyer led him to the grand doorway of a stunning, and imposing high rise. Only a mech in a higher caste would be able to afford a habsuite in this place, it begged the question how one brother could be Lord of Law, but the other only Vigilum Secondus. He was not stupid enough to voice the question. No, Jazz followed his buyer in total silence, willing his creations to keep quiet as well. At Master Barricade’s direction, Jazz stepped into the elevator with him, and road it to the very highest floor. A penthouse suite in a place like this would cost a fortune, and again he wondered about the difference in the brothers’ castes. Master Barricade stepped off the elevator, and Jazz walked quickly after him. The rich were the worst masters of all. They did not give a frag if they damaged or killed their slaves, they could afford a dozen more. Jazz held his twins closely and stood small as he could as he waited for his buyer to knock. Except the Enforcer did not knock, no he entered a code into the lock and stalked inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Prowl?” Master Barricade called. Jazz looked around, surreptitiously.

This habsuite looked like something out of a magazine spread. White lounges covered in cold pillows flanked a crystal table, a chef’s kitchen, crafted all out of dark, matte chrome was separated from the great room by only a half wall. Before Jazz saw his master, he heard the mech. A chair slid across the floor in a room to his left. Though he bowed his helm, the Amalgus angled himself just enough so that he could catch a look at the Lord of Law as soon as he appeared. Prowl, as Master Barricade had called him, stood tall and proud. Where his brother’s armour was all over black save for a few swaths of silver, this Praxian’s armour was white, with broad accents of black. Given the red and gold on his chassis, Jazz had expected more colour to his master’s frame. But the only colour on the Lord of Law at all was a red chevron. The Lord of Law stood very still for a few kliks, absorbing what he was seeing.

“Take them back,” the Praxian ordered. His voice was softer than his brother’s, and without any of the gruffness. Though the command was spoken in a flat tone, there was no mistaking order to it.

“The medic prescribed you Ex Aurae, since you won’t buy it buy the vial, you’re getting it straight from the tap,” Master Barricade declared. Ex Aurae was what the Praxians had dubbed the venom his kind released when they fed from another mechanism. From heaven, it was utter slag.

“Take them back,” the one called Prowl repeated himself with little more weight, his command had no affect on his brother, at all.

“Since you won’t take care of yourself, I’m going to look after you,” the Enforcer declared, his brother curled his servos into fists.

“My office,” the Lord of Law ordered.

Left alone in the immaculate great room, Jazz held his creations tight to his chassis. Given half a kil, Sideswipe could turn this perfect room into a disaster sight, and the progenitor doubted very much that his master would dismiss it as normal sparkling antics. Praxians did not consider Amalgii normal, or even mechanisms, they were chattel. Though the Praxian’s had closed the door, Jazz heard every glyph. Helm cocked, he listened as his new master again ordered his brother to return him and his bitlets to the Auction. Barricade did not even acknowledge the order, he reminded the Lord of Law of his medic’s orders. It was such a disgusting thing, medics prescribing the bite of a sentient creature as if it were any other medicine. Amalgii were only things. Some cooperations milked them for their venom, starving their slaves until they would bite on command, regardless of what it was they were presented to bite, the venom extracted was distilled, making it more potent. They sold it in vials of varying strength. Jazz’s first master operated one of these stables. He had sold Jazz after only a stellar-cycle, there had been no training this Amalgus to bite on command. Had he known what the next master would use him for, Jazz might have been more open to that training. Foresight was a sobering thing.

“You brought bitlets into my habsuite,” Master Prowl said, voice no longer so flat. He sounded aghast. "Have you taken leave of your processor?"

“You can sell them for a profit later,” Master Barricade declared. Out of sight of these Praxians, Jazz snarled, and shook with anger. He would die before his creations were taken.

“Barricade!” The monochrome Praxian exclaimed. “I do not want Amalgii in my habsuite.”

“Than ya should’ve filled your prescription,” his brother replied. “You’ll never see them unless you want to. It’s not like you’re ever here to begin with.”

“You found me here,” Prowl countered.

 

“Because your office in the Hall is being painted,” Barricade retorted. “Nice try, bitlet brother. You still need to get them armoured in your colours, I thought I’d leave that to you. I have plans with Sideways, I’m already late. You just need to order a couple of containment berths or something... The berths in there haven’t been used in millenia, one of them should be good enough for him.”

“Barricade!” The Lord of Law snapped. His protest was ignored. The Enforcer walked out of his brother’s office, and towards the door. He stopped beside Jazz, the Amalgus pretended as though he had not heard a single thing.

“Take good care of my brother,” the dark Praxian ordered as he spread his doorwings. He did not have to sell Jazz the consequences for failing, he knew well enough. Only after door shut behind Master Barricade’s back, did Master Prowl reappear.

The Lord of Law was not small, but he was not the bruiser his brother was. Only a helm taller than Jazz, his armour was lighter, suiting his station, and sculpted in elegant, but simple lines. Like all Praxians, he had broad shoulders to support his doorwings, but along with those he also had long strong legs and arms. His protoform dipped in sharply at the waist, he looked like a mech forged for endurance, and agility. Though he was bigger than Jazz, the Amalgus was easily stronger, but the brand on his chassis, one that would follow him whatever shape he took, gave Master Prowl all the power. His master stared at the Amalgus, contemplating him. Jazz did not dare move, the Twins kept their helms buried in his chassis, utterly silent, as though they knew the uncertainty and danger they were facing. After a full bream, the slave wanted to snap at the Praxian, or at least stare right back at him, but he did neither. Finally, Master Prowl’s optics brightened and he walked right passed Jazz, to another set of doors, he threw them open. They were clearly old servant quarters, designed for the mega-cycles where Praxian higher castes kept live in servants, and not Amalgus slaves.

“These are your rooms,” he declared, almost impatiently. Jazz glanced down the hall to see three additional doors. It looked as if they might even have private washracks, it was something of a surprise. His master walked swiftly over to him, the Amalgus resisted the urge to look up. A white servo with long blunt digits appeared in his line of sight, there was a credit chip sitting in its palm. The slave juggled his creations to take it from his master. He stared at it as the Lord of Law continued with his orders. “Purchase whatever you require. Do not enter my rooms. Ever.”

He turned on his ped, and retreated to his office, leaving a stunned Amalgus in his wake. Jazz stared at the credit chip, and could not believe his luck. Moving quickly, and quietly, less his master change his processor, the Amalgus slipped into the servants quarters and opened the first door. The washracks were simple, a solvent show, a counter for detailing, the fixtures were all well made. There was no question that his master’s washracks would be grander, but grandeur was not something wanted, freedom was what he was after, and as a plan formed in his helm, Jazz thought he was that much close to getting it. In the berthroom closest to the washracks was a simple berth on a simple base. Across from the berth was a wall unit that stood empty, unless you counted the thick layer of dust. Indeed, the air was stale, it was very likely that what Master Barricade had said was true, no one had used these quarters for vorns if not millenia. In the next room over, there was another berth, another empty wall unit, the air was equally stale. They needed a good cleaning, and Jazz would give them just that, but first he stripped the berth cover from pad and lowered his mechlings onto the soft surfaced. It was the softest berth they had ever recharged on and the bitlets sighed and snuggled together and they were quickly in a sound recharge cycle.

Wedging the door open, so he could keep an audial on the Twins, Jazz walked passed the great room and over to the computer built in the kitchen wall. The first hing he did was order armour. Some masters preferred to keep their slaves in nothing but their protoforms, but since Master Prowl had told him to order what he needed, the Amalgus did exactly that. To a point it was a test, just what could he get away with. He ordered a single low berth, not a containment berth, and not two. They had outgrown containment berths, and fencing only inspired Sideswipe’s mischievous streak. Though Sunstreaker was usually happy to stay in berth, and amuse himself until Jazz could collect him, Sideswipe wandered if his progenitor did not collect him nanokliks after he onlined. Thinking of his bitlets, Jazz ordered some simple toys, blocks and puzzles and paints for them. Those millenia old berth covers were probably too stale to clean, and the slave added linens to his list. When the Amalgus needed to serve his master’s whims, they needed to be entertained, the progenitor did not want them wander in and witness... that.

 

Fuel, Jazz thought to himself, was next on his list. He went over to the pantry and found it... empty. Next to an energon press were raw crystals, they appeared to be the only fuel in the whole habsuite. The Amalgus did a full 360 degree turn, and took in the kitchen. It was a work of art, completely pristine, likely so because the kitchen’s owner had never bothered to use it. Jazz shook his helm, it was such a waste. His master might not have bothered to prepare himself proper, balanced fuels, but the progenitor had young mechlings to think about and he order stores of ore, three grades of energon, and oils, flavoured and not. Surely Master Prowl would not complain about this, that was the theory in any case. Once he had confirmed his order Jazz sat on a stool at the kitchen peninsula, and pondered the credit chip. Depending on how the Lord of law react to this shopping extravaganza, the Amalgus’ scheme might just have a shot. A drone delivered the armour and paints first, Jazz carried the crate into the empty berthroom and laid the armour out. Though the chassis was blank, the Amalgus knew whatever he did, when he latched it to his protoform, his master’s mark would always appear on the chassis. That colour dust the smith had sprinkled into the fresh brands reacted with any and all paint nanites, there was no escaping it. Jazz could live with the brand, he had lived with one or another for vorns at this stage. He turned the tin of paint over in his servos with reverence. His master’s colours were black and white, once upon a time Jazz had favoured the same shades. This Praxian could not know what he had once looked like, and the Amalgus smiled a secret smile. With genuine pleasure he becane to paint this new armour. It was thin armour, not much of a defence against the elements or angry masters, but at least when he looked in a mirror, Jazz could finally see himself again, and not the doll some cogsucker had designed. For a nanoklik the progenitor debated how he would paint his creations’ armour but he settle on simple black. White stood out, if the bitlets needed to hide while some aft’s tantrum passed, black would be ideal. Some mega-cycle they would be able to choose their own colours, some mega-cycle.

“Paint?” Sunstreaker thrilled excitedly as he toddled into the room.

“Not for ya, sweet love,” Jazz replied. In private spaces, the Amalgus only spoke his native dialect to his bitlets, it was thus the language they spoke best. If he died before they could escape, Jazz wanted his creations to have that piece of their culture. Sunstreaker pouted at him, and dropped to his aft to sulk. Jazz smiled at his creation as he set the armour, and paints up high to dry. “Don’t worry bitty I got somethin’ comin’ for ya. Come to ‘gen, lemme see ya brand.”

“Owie,” his first emerged declared.

“Ya, I hear ya,” the Amalgus sighed and his creation crawled up onto his lap. The nanite gel had created a good seal over the ugly mark. By the time it was absorbed by his sentio-metallikato, the protoform will have healed. “Where’s ya brother at? Usually y’re right on his tail.”

“Out,” Sunstreaker said, point out the door, and down the hall.

“Oh frag,” Jazz sat the elder twin on the berth and raced out of the servant/slave quarters. He caught side of Sideswipe right away, his slagmaker was just centimetres from their master’s door. The progenitor’s spark was in his throat and he ran to Sideswipe and scooped him up, before he could trigger that door. His bitlet made a startled warbled, and Jazz nuzzled his little helm as he returned quickly to their space. “Never there, precious spark, never there.”

One by one the parcels arrived via drone courier, at no point did their master appearance. In some regards, Jazz was relieved, in others he was anxious. He considered asking Master Prowl how he wanted the fuel sorted, but quickly dismissed the idea. Considering the Praxian had not bothered to stalk anything but raw crystals for his press, Jazz figured he probably did not care where the Amalgus put the gels, or ore, so he put it away as he liked, leaving out what he needed to use for the dark-cycle’s meal. It had been vorns since he had cooked, no master had wanted him as a house mech. As Jazz crushed some ore into oil, and rolled out and cut energon noodles, he started to feel a little bit more like a proper mech than he had in a long time. With the Twins playing with their new toys, their progenitor was able to focus on on this forgotten domestic chore. Though he strained his audials to listen, his master worked silently behind his closed door. Before long, he forgot all about the spectre of the Praxian. As he relaxed, Jazz started to hum. There was no knowing what the dark-cycle would bring, but for a few breams, the Amalgus enjoyed a little peace.

Jazz found some bowls in the cupboard, coated in a layer of dust not quite able to compete with that in their berthrooms, but disgusting all the same. First, he only washed three plates, but reached into the cupboard for one more. Though the mech did not bother to stock his kitchen, or prepare fuels in it, he had to fuel on something. If Master Prowl wanted to order delivery, there was nothing Jazz could do for it, nothing he would want to do, but if his master did make an appearance, the slave thought it best to leave him a plate of fuel, the Praxian had paid for it after all. So he made four plates and left one on the counter before returning to the Twins. It was the first real fuel they would have had in stellar-cycles. When their last master’s credits had started to run low, he had switched his stable to the lowest grade of ration fuel. His mechlings’ juvenile tanks had been upset more than half the time, this would be a welcome change. They never complained about fuel deprivation, they knew already not to complain, certainly not around a Praxian, but when Jazz carried they plates in their optics brightened right up, and they wolfed down their fuel, like the ravenous bitlets they were. Their progenitor ate more slowly, savouring each mouthful of fuel. With full tanks the mechlings went back to their blocks, and smiling, Jazz gathered up their dishes and returned to the kitchen. His master’s plate was gone, he must have slipped in and out while Jazz had been preoccupied with the mechlings. Since Master Prowl had not come around to rage at him, he must not have minded seeing his slave make use of the kitchen. For what little he had gathered of his master, the Amalgus did not believe the mech to be particularly irrational, but Jazz could easily be proven wrong. Even after he had loaded the dishes in the washer to be cleaned, he lingered, using the excuse that the plates and bowls in the cupboard really needed to be washed before anyone used them, and he loaded them into the washer, and set it on to run. At no point did Master Prowl appear. Was his master waiting for him to return to the slave quarters, or was he lost in whatever work he had brought home with him. Either way, Jazz did eventually return to the Twins. He gently washed their protoforms, and tucked them into the ancient berth, singing one of the lullabies his own origin had sung him. The new bedding had arrived with the groceries, the berth would arrive the next mega-cycle.

Something would have to be done with this old berth, it had to go somewhere. It was really too far off the ground for the Twins, and before he left them to recharge, he rolled the old blankets up, and put them below the berth, either bitlet roll off the berth. Honestly, they both recharged like the dead, but Jazz would never forgive himself if they were hurt because he had not even bothered to try. Jazz made the ancient berth he had claimed in a simple but rich blue blanket. It had been the same price as the other blankets, there was no reason he should get any flack for it. He laid down in the berth, it may have been old but the pad was still in good shape, and the Amalgus relaxed onto his side, facing the door. The blue blanket had been an impulsive purchase, and he could not help but to wonder if he had jinxed himself. For joors Jazz laid awake, listening, waiting. Late into the dark-cycle, he heard his master move in the kitchen, and the slave clenched his servos into fists and waited, and waited. His master never appeared in his berthroom door. As Jazz heard the Praxian’s own berthroom door slide shut, he sagged against his pillow, and could not stop himself from weeping with relief.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All previous warnings apply.

As Jazz lounged in his berth, enjoying a few more breams relaxation before Sideswipe started the mega-cycle’s mischief, he heard pedsteps. He listened as his master brewed pressed energon, and then left the habsuite, the whole process only taking a bream at most. It was... early yet to head to the Hall, at least the Amalgus thought it was, but then what did he know about Praxian law, other than what it did to his framekin? Really, it should have been a relief to know that his master was gone for the mega-cycle but instead Jazz felt anxious. Master Prowl had hardly given him any ground rules, apart from banning him from his personal quarters. Rather than rules he had given him freedoms, ones that ultimately made Jazz nervous. It would be too easy to step on the Lord of Law’s peds and then what? Though Jazz was just a little desperate to get his plan underway, he had to make sure his master did not look to closely at his accounts. If the Praxian was a blase about it as Jazz just thought he might be then he would not notice it if the slave bought a gift chip on his account, he would not notice a few credits here or there, until Jazz had enough to make his break for it. There were a lot of ifs, but better ifs than hopelessness and defeat.

 

Now that he had no worry about disturbing his master, Jazz got up from his berth, smooth the cover. The armour he had left drying over the dark cycle was ready, and with no small degree of relief, he latched it to his protoform. It was standard armour for Amalgus slaves, and covered precious little protoform when all was set and done, but it covered his spark, and his array, and that was enough for Jazz. The wait of the armour made his freshly branded protoform ache, but it was easy enough to ignore, he was no stranger to pain. There had been masters that had preferred to have him bared to their optics, and their whips at all times, and then there had been Roadrash... This armour however indecent it might once have made him feel, was a vast improvement. He walked over to the kitchen, ready to face whatever this mega-cycle might bring. Nothing appeared to have been touched, apart from the press. His master had not bothered to eat any of the fuel Jazz had stocked the pantry with. Prowl just might have had a worse diet than Ricochet.

 

Curious to see what his master had actually fueled on, the slave examined the press, trying to figure out how the mech took his energon, it could earn Jazz some points if he learned to brew it right. In his hurry to leave, Master Prowl had not cleaned out the press, and his slave expressed another couple of drops of energon from the crushed crystals. The results were a black sludge, it looked absolutely vile. After drinking slag like this the mech should have been speaking in tongues and bouncing off the walls, but his master’s ped steps had been soft and even. Master Prowl did not seem like a mech of powerful emotions, even when he had argued with his brother he had been eerily calm, though he had spoken firmly, he had never raised his voice. A calm nature could be a positive thing, as could a passionate one, Jazz had experienced the dark side of both. Until he interacted with this Praxian more, he could not know what, if any, cruelty lay in the mech’s spark.

 

Why was his master still a purus? The Amalgus was willing to bet the mech had at least a few vorns on him, if not millenia. Did Lords of Law have to take oaths of chastity in this accursed place? Those oaths were not worth rusted scrap. Plenty of temple priests enjoyed the bite of Amalgii, a few of the temples even kept a collection of his kin to serve their clergy. Jazz had seen these Amalgii and he knew damn well that the priest were using them for more than just their bite. Since the Praxians did not see Amalgii as mechanisms, but as beasts like the Predacons, fragging them did not count as a violation of thse vows. It was utter slag. If Amalgii were mechanimals, how would fragging them not be a perversion? No one thought it was normal to frag a hell hound or a pneuma lion, Pit fragging them would be a violation of of Praxian law. Amalgii occupied a different section of law, the theft of their mechahood was a con, a scam to give the Praxians ready access to their drug of choice.

 

His master had refused to buy decanted venom, and to be fair, he had also refused ownership of Jazz, futile or not faced with the force of Master Barricade. This suggested to the Amalgus that the odds that were good that his master would abstain from utilizing his bite, which unfortunately did not do Jazz any favours. Like all Amalgii, he needed feed of other mechanisms no less than once a quartex. Regular intake of common energon, minerals and oils were vital to his frametype’s health, but they needed more. The damned Praxians had lumped them into the same category as Sparkeaters, but of course it was not so simple. Sparkeaters were monsters, mechanisms and cyberbeasts that had been infected and changed. They ripped the still pulsing sparks from their victims, and consumed them whole. Amalgii in a way did feed on mechanisms sparks, they fed on the potent mix of spark energy and energon the formed immedately beyond the spark chamber. It was not even innermost energon, it was more potent than even that sacred energon, the act of feeding on this energon did not kill their prey. Historically the Polihexians had been their fuel, enjoying the affects of the venom, and the pleasure Amalgii were quite often willing to share. More often than not Amalgii bonded to Polihexians, the resulting offspring could take after either procreator, both Jazz and Ricochet had taken after their originator, Punch. One hungry Amaglus had fed on an unwitting Praxian invader, and had given rise to this living Pit. From the very moment these slagtards discovered the “magic” of their bite, the Amalgii had been doomed.

 

He could not starve. Sunny and Sides needed him. But the consequences of forcing a bite on his master could easily be fatal. True, Jazz was stronger than this Praxian, and physically he could overpower the Lord of Law, or his brother, but all his master would need to do was comm for help, and the Amalgus would be as good as dead. What would happen to the Twins then? If the Praxian would not take a bite maybe he would lend Jazz to someone else. It was a vile thought, being passed around like shareware was demoralizing, it killed a part of your spark, but then Jazz had been shared many times by this stage. This master did not seem like the type to pimp out his slave, but if he would not let Jazz feed, the slave would have to beg for it. His last master had made him beg for it, first for his spike, and then for his fuel. That last time he had tormented Jazz for joors, smirking all the while, not just making him beg, but making him thank to slagtard for every piece of abuse. In the orns that had passed, the Amaglus had healed from that final rape, but when he recharged, he could still still feel the cogsucker’s spike inside of him, and taste him on his glossa, and Jazz wondered if he always would. Damn Roadrash, damn all of these Praxians, every one of them, to the darkest corner of the deepest level of the Pit.

 

Feeling anger both potent and futile, Jazz cleaned the energon press and prepared his own, far weaker brew. At least he could make use of this Praxian’s luxuries, for however long he had access. It was not the ideal fuel, his frame craved the vitae energon that flowed from a mechanism’s spark chamber, but he loathed to actually ask for this fuel. His past masters had warped the act of feeding, turned it into a tool of power and torture, even if this Praxian had thus far shown no signs of these mechs’ perversions, Jazz was not optimistic. He had not yet met a Praxian who had not either been addicted to the Ex Aurae his kind produced, or the power they had over the Amalgii they enslaved, or both. Master Prowl was Lord of Law, one of the most powerful mechanisms in Praxus, to hold that kind of power he had to be intelligent, ruthless and ambitious. All these traits gave Jazz cause to fear.

 

Jazz drank his energon and pondered the kitchen. It was beautifully equipped, it really was but it did not seem like his master had ever used it, so why have it at all? Maybe it was a matter of appearance but his first impression of this Praxian was that he was not much of a socialite. The Amalgus turned and looked to the great room, he did not think he was ever going to sit there. In fact it did not look as if anyone ever had. Leaving his cube on the smooth, white, marbled countertop, Jazz walked around into the great room, hoping and praying his peds did not leave any marks on the too white carpet. Just as he had thought, there were stiff fabric protects covering the cushions. By this point the slave knew plenty more about Praxians that he would ever have wanted, he knew they liked their cushions thick, soft and with plenty of give. Sitting on this lounge and settee would be akin to sitting on a solid slab. Either his master never used this room, never hosted company, or he was a masochist who only kept the company of the same.

 

Sighing with relief when he found the shimmering white carpet looked as pristine as before, Jazz went back to the kitchen. No doubt the counter tops were as pricey as the settee, or the carpet, but even so ostentatious a kitchen was still meant to be used, and he was no worried about leaving stains. When went into the pantry to see to his mechlings’ breakfast, the Amalgus found his master had not touched any of the fuels Jazz had purchased and put away. Though this was not exactly a surprise given how little time the Praxian had spent in the kitchen when he had risen that light-cycle. Hopefully he fuelled in the Hall, maybe, Jazz shook his helm, and grabbed a jar of minerals, and the rest of his ingredients. His master’s fuelling habits were not his problem, and he was not going to spend the processing power stressing about the Lord of Law.

 

Mixing binders, energon and graphite white the griddle heated, Jazz tried his best to focus on him plans for the mechlings, and not the Praxian who owned his family. They had never enjoyed the best fuels, his bitlets’ protoforms a dull grey, rather than a shiny silver it should have been due to the lack of healthy minerals and quality energon in their diet. The last dark-cycle’s fuel was the first balanced meal they had eaten in their entire lives, so far their little tanks had handled. When they were used to fuelling properly, Jazz would add more ore to their diet, but they were harder to digest, and he was keenly aware that if they fell ill, he would be all but helpless. His master would not pay a medic to see sparklings slaves he never wanted, so the progenitor had to be careful that he was careful with his mechlings. Thank Primus they had always been healthy, bright and alert, despite the slag they had fuelled on all their vorns, it would be worse than the Pit if they failed now.

 

Jazz flipped the energon cakes, and tried not to dwell on all of the slag he could not change. When he had detonated the bombs he and Origin had planted around the entrance to Doradus, collapsing it and burying in the sands of the Wastes, he had known his odds would be grim. Despite the things he had seen serving in the Fellowship, the Amalgus had not been prepared for the torture he, and the other Amalgus in Praxian captivity would experience. Still, Jazz did not regret his decision. For all the thousands of his framekin held in Praxian brothels, farms and household, more were free, safe in their hidden city than were slaves, and he felt no regrets. Anger, on the other servo, he felt; it perfused every circuit in his frame. He had lost count of the number of times and ways he had been raped, and he knew his fellows slaves had experienced the same. Jazz had scene their frames discarded like trashed when their sparks failed under the abuse. He hated these Praxians for every torment they had perpetuated on him and his framekin. Some mega-cycle he would return to the Auction, not to be sold again, but it would be to plant the bombs that would sent the cursed place, and the blacksmiths, and wardens in it, to Unicron’s cold embrace.

 

Finding himself craving some comfort, the progenitor pressed himself more energon, and served three plates of fuel. In the dark-cycle, when he made their dinner, Jazz would make enough for four. His master would either eat it as he had the dark-cycle before, or he would leave it. So long as the slave kept the kitchen tidy, he did not think his master would take much notice, he hoped not, he prayed not. As he unlocked the door to his bitlet’s new berthroom, Sidewipe lunged at his legs. They hated being locked in, but there was no other choice, he had to keep them out of their master’s space. Despite what he had overheard, Jazz was not convinced Master Prowl would not sell his mechlings away from him if the made a mess of his pristine habsuite. The door to the servant/slave quarters was locked behind, and for now that it was the light-cycle, their berthroom and his would be unlocked to allow them just a little more space. They had never been out in a park or field, they had always been confined, and their progenitor loathed this but confinement was their reality, for now. They did not know to loathe it too.

 

“Good light-cycle itty bitty,” he said, speaking to Sideswipe in the language of the Amalgii. “Why don’t ya let me come in so ya can have y’re fuel?”

 

“Oooh,” Sideswipe made a happy chirr. “Wha’s this?”

 

“Energon cakes, sweetlin’,” Jazz replied. “Sunny bitty, ya gonna join us? It’s y’re geni’s favourite.”

 

Not an early riser like his twin, Sunstreaker lifted his helm from his pillow and gave him progenitor a baleful look. Before he had been a slave, Jazz had felt the same way about light-cycles, and he smiled fondly at his first emerged. The smell of fuel, strange and new to him, was enough to see the little mechling sit up and then crawl across the berth to his brother and progenitor. Though Sideswipe was a chatty bitlet, Sunstreaker rarely spoke more than one or two glyphs at a time. Jazz thought he understood language just fine, but maybe he preferred to let Sideswipe speak for him, or maybe the captivity they had spent their whole lives in, and the things they had witnessed had made him close to mute. When Jazz had them safely away, safely ensconced in Doradus, he would hired the best therapist, the best of everything, for now he would keep speaking with them, keep singing to them.

 

“Hmm,” Sunstreaker hummed as he examined his plate, but after watching his progenitor take a bite, the bitlet followed suit. “Yummy!”

 

“Yummy?” Sideswipe asked, having waited this long to touch his fuel, now he descended on it like the ravenous beastformer he was. With his mouth full of fuel, he sighed. “Mmmmmm.”

 

“Just what I was thinkin’,” their progenitor said and he stroked their helms. The flavours were just about perfect, it tasted like home. He was conscious that the flavours he gravitated towards were not those his master would likely enjoy, but Jazz did not know how to prepare Praxian recipes, no master had wanted him for a housemech. If Master Prowl had an opinion he was just going to have to voice it, and Jazz would try and learn. Though he told himself this, the Amalgus could not stop but worry that this master would just sit and stew until his irritation and anger bubbled over, and there was nothing Jazz could do to prevent it.

 

When the mechlings had finished their fuel they were an absolute mess, wearing as much of the syrup as they had eaten. Smiling at this particular rite of passage, their progenitor took them to the washracks to clean up. Despite what he had hoped, the nanite gel was flaking off, and their brands did not look even close to healed. On their own their self-repair systems were not mature enough to integrate the mineral dyes that had been scorched into their protoforms. He dug around and found a medkit under the counter, and to his considerable relief, there was a tin of nanite gel, still within its used by date. Where the berthrooms were a breeding ground for dust, the washracks were clean, maybe they had been used by whatever guests his master had over... His brother, if no one else. It was their washracks so their master would not mind if they used the gel, in theory. Even if he did, Jazz was willing to take the risk, and he opened the jar applied a thick layer to both their chassis. For a nanoklik he considered applying some to his own brand but he thought better of it. Better to safe the gel for the bitlets. They had never had good fuel, it was amazing they were as healthy as they were considering what they had subsisted on, his self-repairs could handle this brand, as they had every other.

 

“Why don’tcha play a bit while I clean up?” He suggested, and dug a couple of toys from the chest he had purchased on his master’s account. They seemed a little sluggish this light-cycle, but with full tanks, and a fresh layer of gel, Jazz thought they would perk up. For their comfort, the progenitor left them out of armour, he knew they would be more comfortable for it, as would he really but the idea of walking around, even without his master present, bare to the world, made his tank roll over. Jazz preferred the pain from the armour to being exposed, it was a small price to pay to feel even a little like a real mech.

 

There were cleaning supplies in the washracks, Jazz tug them out and set to work. With the Twins amusing themselves with a puzzle in their berthroom, he returned to his own and set to work wiping ever speck of dust away. As a rule, the Amalgus was not a neat freak, but while he liked a bit of clutter, he did not like grime and dust, clutter was not the same as filth, a few toys scattered on the floor was not the same as mess. Taking the paint from the shelf where he had stashed it, and setting the tins in the corner, Jazz tackled a thousand stellar-cycles worth of dust. By the time he was done with the shelves, the Amalgus was in a cleaning frenzy, and he went on to wash the walls, the floor, the ceiling. He paused for a half joor here and there to check on the mechlings, to play with them a little. As long as they had each other, even young as they were, they were self-reliant, far too much given they were only first tier sparklings. Unfortunately for all three of them they were used to Jazz being stuck behind another set of doors, sometimes for joors. They had learned not to cry, there were consequences for noise.

 

It took joors, with a few breaks, but when Jazz stepped back and circled the room, he felt keenly satisfied, and a little tired. Though the empty shelves bothered him, he had no knickknacks to fill them with, and even with his master’s credit chip at his disposal, there was nothing the Amalgus would want to buy. Home in Polihex he had things. Even if someone had taken over his habsuite his family will have kept his belongs. There was nothing in Praxus he could want to keep or collect. Sometimes Jazz felt a faint flicker in his spark, his originator or twin reaching out. They knew he was alive, that was all Jazz was able to give them. If he let his originator or brother teek a fraction of what he had faced, they would race headlong into Praxus to save him, and almost certainly die or be captured in the process. As commander of the Fellowship, Punch had unmatched skills in infiltration, but Jazz was still not willing to risk his originator being captured trying to save him, the same thing went for his Ric.

 

With light-cycle having passed into mid-cycle as he had been cleaning, Jazz again checked on the Twins again before going to the kitchen to make them lunch. Questioning if he might not be overworking their little tanks with rich fuel, he made a plate of gels, dusted in mineral flecks, it was quick and easy, and just about all he had the energy to do. A chime at the door pulled Jazz out of the meal prep and he went to the door. It was another delivery drone. The faceless machine pushed a flatbed into the great room, unloaded the deconstructed berth and mattress, and returned from whence he came. Jazz closed the door behind the drone and frowned. He was not entirely comfortable with the free use of drones in Praxus, but at the same time he was glad he was not stuck facing down a Praxian with every delivery. Any Praxian could be a threat, since his master was nowhere in sight, there was no one in the habsuite to tell them no, Jazz’s glyph was not worth slag. Although, he was the possession of the Lord of Law one of the highest official the entire empire, robbing him, or otherwise misusing his property would probably not go unpunished. This was not a theory Jazz intended to test, but it offer just a little comfort. The Amalgus only had two mechanisms he truly had to fear, Master Prowl, and his brother.

 

“Okay, bitties I got a new berth for ya!” He exclaimed as he brought the Twins the plate to share. They glanced up from their game, more interested in the plate he was holding than the prospect of a new berth. “We’re gonna have some fuel then I’ll get to work.”

 

He did not dare mention the glyph nap, though they would definitely ready to go down for one, once they got some more fuel in them, contrary to what either mechling believed. No. Nap was their mantra, but their moods were so much better when they got some recharge in the mid-cycle. Sometimes they went down easily enough, just a little cuddling and a couple of lullabies, and sometimes Jazz got close to offering his spark to Unicron if they would just recharge for a joor. With their little frames forced to integrate those damned brands, they needed their rest, whatever the little terrors wanted. Jazz pulled them onto his lap as he felt the first real prickle of fear. They were not acting off, there was a tower on the floor, puzzles spread out over the berth. Sideswipe chattered as they fuelled, Sunstreaker nibbling silently. His second emerged paused and amended his story. Sunstreaker really did not need to speak, he had Sideswipe do it for him.

 

“‘Can ya help me clean up?” He asked after they had finished fuelling. “Got a nice new berth for ya, safe for ya to climb all over.”

 

“M’eh,” Sunstreaker sneered, the mechling new what berths were for. Jazz laughed.

 

“M’eh, h’uh?” The progenitor asked. “Why don’t ya show me where ya want the blocks?”

 

Sunstreaker liked things a certain way, letting him lead the charge was the easiest way to get him involved. As his twin helped their progenitor put the blocks away in the corner, Sideswipe lounged on the berth, supervising. Familiar with his bitlet’s antics, Jazz put him to work putting away the puzzles. The promise of cuddles and stories after everything was put away was enough motivation for Sideswipe. There was a reason he had purchased just one, double berth. As split-sparks they only really relaxed when they were close. Though he was a twin himself, Jazz and Ricochet were fraternal twins, not split-sparks, though they were closely bonded, it was not quite the same. Even when Jazz had his spark open to his kin, Ric could not feel his pain like it was his own. Twins were the norm amongst Amalgii carryings, but split-sparks were still a rarity even amongst his framekin. Jazz had no idea if their originator had been a twin, he and Free Wheeler had never actually spoken.

 

It did not take long to clean up the toys, Jazz had not gone overboard buying them playthings, though he would have loved to give them anything and everything. They were flagging more now and he scooped them up into his arms and carried them into the berth he had claimed and curled up with them. There had been no sparkling tales to buy for them, not Polihexian or Amalgii ones, but Jazz did not need a datapad to tell them a story. With them perched on his chassis the progenitor told them a story of a Predacon and a mischievous Amalgus. As his own progenitors had, Jazz spoke in a different voice for each character, the Twins loved it. At the part where the Amalgus sang a spell to put the Predacon into recharge, Jazz sang the glyphs. His bitlets nuzzled in as one song segued into another. After the third they were in recharge. Peaceful moments like this had been a rare treat, and the Amalgus offlined his optics, a half joors nap would recharged his own sluggish systems, that would have been his excuse, had there been anyone around to ask. The truth was he just did not want to disturb the mechlings just yet. If they had had it their way they would have recharged with him every dark-cycle, as much as he would have loved to give in to them, it had never been an option.

 

When his alarm went off after a half-joor, Jazz dragged himself up. He felt sluggish, but pushed through it. Resisting the impulse to sigh, the progenitor carefully eased his bitlets off his frame and onto the berth itself, and tucked them in tight. Stepping silently, Jazz left his creations to rest and set to work stripping the old berth down, and converting it into its compact, square shape for storage. There was desk the Twins were too young to use in the corner, and their progenitor collapsed it as well, and stacked it on top of the old berth, and pushed both into the corner. It occurred to the Amalgus that he had not asked his master what he ought to do with the old berth. As quietly as he could, he dragged the corner of the berthroom, and dragged the new one in from the hall to take its place along the wall. Even inanimate objects transformed here, it was not exactly a negative. The new berth practically put itself together, and as soon as Jazz pulled the pad from its packaging it popped right up. Covering it up in the colourful linens he had purchased the dark-cycle before, it was all ready for the Twins. When the mechlings were done with their nap, Jazz would drag the desk and berth into his berthroom. Sideswipe would not be able to resist climbing the cubed furniture if he had the opportunity. Though it was not what he was really craving, the Amalgus went to the kitchen for another cube of pressed energon. As the fuel slowly dripped from the press, Jazz turned around and leaned against counter.

 

“Oh no,” he cried as he saw Sunstreaker sitting on the stark white carpet, next to the tin of black paint. Jazz had not put it back up on the shelf before he had put them down for a nap. “Sunny!”

 

At the sharp tone in his voice, his bitlet burst into frightened, silent tears, his small vents hiccuping every few sobs. Jazz rushed over to him, and scooped him up. He nuzzled his mechling, cradled him against his chassis, and apologized over and over. Against his chassis, his creation sobbed, and the progenitor rocked back and forth, trying to calm his shaking mechling. Sick with dread and fear, the Amalgus swallowed his panic as he focused on his bitlet. Paint smeared his plating, Sunstreaker was covered in it, so was the carpet. When his creation’s ventilations smoothed, Jazz carried him into the washracks, and ran a warm bath. Though he played with the bitlet, and cooed at him, the mask was hard to keep up, and Sunstreaker was largely unresponsive. There would be the Pit to pay if their Master. The habsuite was so perfect, Master Prowl would notice the mess right away. Sunstreaker knew something was wrong, and he refused to let go of his progenitor after he was lifted from the tub, and gently dried. Sideswipe peered out from under the berth when his progenitor carried his twin into the berthroom. Had he heard Jazz yell, or was he just feeding of his brother’s fear?

 

“It’s okay, bitty,” Jazz crooned. “Come to ‘geni.”

 

Sideswipe crawled out and toddled over to Jazz’s outstretched arm. Though the drying paint of a spectre of doom in the back of the progenitor’s processor, the Twins would not tolerate him leaving them to clean. He took them to their berth, and pulled the puzzle cubes from the chest. Laying with them, the Amalgus showed his creations how to make the cubes sing and to change. Eventually, they settled enough that they let their progenitor slip off the berth, but only after considerable cuddling and reassurance. Wary of another disaster, Jazz moved the compacted furniture out into the great room, and though it broke his spark a little, he locked the Twins in. Jazz gathered every cleaning chemical he could find and dropped to his knees in front of the stain. For joors, or at least it felt like joors, he scrubbed the carpet. The paint came easily off the floor, but though he was able to scrub most of the paint off, the rug now had a clear grey stain, right in the direct line of sight of the door. It would be the first thing their master saw. As a last, desperate hope, Jazz pour a little solvent on a cloth and blotted it against the carpet, and the grey began to fade, but the fine metal thread of the embroidery turned green.

 

“Frag,” the slave tossed the cloth and cried angry and helpless tears.

 

He did not want to accept defeat, but Jazz had tried everything, and he had only made the stain worse. Dragging himself up, chassis throbbing with each pulse of his spark, the progenitor forced himself into the kitchen. They needed fuel, the mechlings did, the idea of eating was the least palatable thing the Amalgus could think of at the moment. There was not pleasure working in the kitchen this time, dread hung over Jazz as he diced gelled energon, tossed them in minerals and added them to a pan of ore and oil. There was nothing he could offer his master. If the Lord of Law wanted his valve, his spike or his glossa, than his master would have it, Jazz’s frame was not his to offer, it already belonged to the Praxian. Master Prowl was a purus in any case, there was no question about that, offering to suck is spike would be more of an outrage than an apology. No Praxian would want to give their seals to an Amalgus, it would be like giving them to a turbofox so far as they were concerned.

 

Jazz did not taste his fuel as he consumed it alongside his mechlings. They were quiet, feeding off their progenitor’s EM field. Even after they were curled up in recharge, Jazz stayed with the Twins. It could be his last dark-cycle with them. He could not let them be sold away from him, and there was only one thing in his power that the Amalgus could do to stop it from happening. Free Wheeler had done everything imaginable to trigger a miscarriage. Kindling had broken something in him, or given him a new well of strength. They had not been housed in the same floor, but Jazz had heard from other slaves all the crazy and desperate things their fellow slave had tried to terminate the newsparks inside of him. It had made the lifelong operative of the Fellowship sick with guilt. All his life he had protected his framekin and Doradus, he had emerged into the function. If newsparks could have been kindled from Jazz’s spark, Free Wheeler would have been spared the horror of having his forge grow with newsparks he did not want.

 

Roadrash had tried, and tried, and tried. From almost the moment he had taken sight of Jazz, he had been fixated on this idea, purchasing him from the Amalgus’ previous master just for this purpose, raping him whenever he had a free klik, sometimes several times in a mega-cycle. It been an obsession of that Pitspawn to burn a newspark off Jazz, but no newspark had ever formed in the slaves spark. When he had been unable to spark Jazz up, he had held breeding parties, taking sick mechs’ credits so they could try and frag a spark into his defiant slave’s forge. Even then, no newspark had ever formed. Roadrash had not been willing to admit defeat, and he had forced Jazz to spike Free Wheeler, had forced them to merge as he had used Jazz’s valve. Free Wheeler would be alive if a spark had taken in Jazz’s own. Would he have been as brave as Free Wheeler, ready to die instead of emerging newlings into slavery? He had not been brave enough to let them die in their originator’s forge when the mech had taken Gideon’s Glue when his frame had entered emergece. Jazz had cut them out of the dead mech’s forge with his own claws. Had he been as brave as Free Wheeler, he would have let them die before they could be slaves. Could he be brave enough to kill them now, to save himself and them from seeing them sold into the unknown.

 

Well after the bitties had fallen into recharge, long after his spark had broken for the thousandth time, Jazz heard the door to the habsuite open. He was frozen in place. The progenitor knew he needed to face his master, to make excuses, to beg, but he could not convince his frame to move. Jazz listened as the Lord of Law walked into the habsuite. Audial horns straining, the Amalgus listened for a curse, or shout of anger, but there was nothing. Pedsteps moved across the room, and Jazz leapt to his peds. Maybe his master could not see it? If he had left the lights off, he would not see it. Afraid what wrath might come if the Praxian thought he had tried to hide the disaster from him, the slave forced himself through the berthroom door, through the hall...

 

“Master,” he called out as the door opened. He had expected to see his master’s back but the mech was looking across at him, from the kitchen island, his cold optics glowed brightly. Master Prowl had seen the stain then, he must have been angry, waiting for his slave to explain. “There was an accident. One of the bitties got into the paint ‘n...”

 

“Paint?” His master said, helm ever so slightly cocked, optics dimming, his face was expressionless.

 

“The rug...” Jazz said, pointing to the stain. The Praxian’s optics dropped from his slave’s face to the carpet.

 

“It is an ugly rug,” Master Prowl proclaimed as he looked up again, having barely done more than glance at the grey patch.

 

“Master?” The Amalgus asked, in utter disbelief.

 

“Order proper armour,” his Master said, looking at _him_ longer than he had the rug, be for he to his private quarters without another glyph

 

Jazz stared at the sealed door. That was not the response he had been expecting, not to the rug, not to the armour he had purchased. Proper armour... could he mean armour like him, like a free mech? No question, the Amalgus wanted it, wanted so much not to look like a buymech but if he was misinterpreting his Master, it only promised trouble. Maybe he wanted that slagging sheer armour Master Roadrash had so adored, an interface slave’s armour. He glanced back at the door to his quarters, and then back to his master’s suite. Frozen with indecision, Jazz tried to decide what he ought to do. As he looked back and forth between the doors again, he saw the plate he had left for the Praxian. Master Prowl had been so quick to retreat he had not even glanced at the kitchen counter. Would he be feeling fuel deprivation? Just because he had not fuelled that light-cycle did not mean he would not have fuelled at the Hall... or wherever he had spent the last sixteen joors. Setting his jaw, Jazz stalked over to the covered plate, and picked it up. It was as good an excuse as he could think of. Pausing in the small hallway, the slave listened, finally he turned and knocked on his master’s office door. When he heard the Praxian speak, he entered.

 

“Fuel, Master,” Jazz explained as the Praxian stared up at him. For a nanoklik Master Prowl stared almost through him.

 

“Thank you,” his master said, and he took the proffered plate. His workstation had five holo screens projected from it, all empty, so far as Jazz could see. There was a pile of datapads on a try at the corner of the Praxian’s desk, and one in his servos, he looked exhausted. Considering the joor, Master Prowl had right to be, so why was he sitting at his desk and not laying in his berth?

 

“Master, I don’t wanna make another mistake,” the Amalgus said, trying with only some success to swallow his fear. “What sort of armour do ya want me to wear?”

 

“Something that will actually afford you protection,” Master Prowl replied, setting his datapad down, and turning it off as he did. It shorted something in Jazz, what was he working on that he did not want his slave to see? Could he have been registering Sunstreaker for sale? The Lord of Law gestured to the plate. “You do not need to concern yourself with fuelling me. I take my meals wherever I am working.”

 

“Did ya this ‘cycle?” Jazz asked, trying to keep the anxiety worming through his processor from his voice. His master frowned ever so slightly.

 

“It has been a few joors,” the Praxian conceded. Exhausted and fuel deprived, Master Barricade may just have been right to worry. Buying a nursemaid for his brother was easier than hiring one, Master Prowl could dismiss a servant with ease, selling a slave was harder, especially when if you had a conscience and it appeared his master just might be one of those rare Praxian’s who did. Perhaps he could play to that conscience... But if he was wrong?

 

“Then I’ll keep makin’ a plate for ya,” the slave declared. If he was a good slave, his master might show mercy. Jazz would do whatever the mech wanted if only he could keep his creations.

 

“It occurs to me I do not have your designation,” Master Prowl said.

 

“Jazz,” he replied. It was his designation, other masters had called him designations they had chosen, or just Slave.

 

“The mechlings?” His master asked.

 

“Sunstreaker and Sideswipe,” Jazz could barely force the glyphs on. He thought quickly, trying to thinking of something that would spare his creation or creations this mech’s wrath.

 

“Which one got into the paint?” Master Prowl asked.

 

“Sunstreaker,” the Amalgus replied, shaking now He dropped to his knees and begged, unashamed of the tears falling from his optics. “Please, it’s my fault. I didn’t put’em up, he’s just a bitlet, please... I...”

 

“He would enjoy sparkling friendly paints,” the Lord of Law said.

 

“What?” Jazz asked, his processor went blank.

 

“Stand up,” the Lord of Law ordered in that same flat and frosty tone, his servos lightly curled against his desk. Was it impatience? Was Jazz reading too deep into a casual gesture? “Purchase paints and canvas for him. They are easier to clean up.”

 

“I don’t understand,” the progenitor said, climbing to his peds, his helm was spinning.

 

“I will not punish a sparkling for a little spilled paint,” his master said, with a subtle edge. “It is an ugly rug, a stain is a good excuse to roll it up. It would have been considerably more work if he had somehow gotten it on the ceiling.”

 

“Thank ya, Master,” Jazz replied, wiping his face free of tears. “Thank ya.”

 

“The joor is late, go to recharge,” Master Prowl said, he lifted his datapad again, and turned it back on, a clear dismissal. “I doubt they will allow you any extra joors.”

 

“Yes Master,” the Amalgus replied. Though he wanted to tell his master to go to recharge, he thought better of it. This mech might have been unorthodox, but he was still the master, and Jazz was still the slave. And he had shown the progenitor’s little family no small mercy. Still, it was ironic that the mech was telling him to recharge when he was clearly slagged off his peds. “Thank ya. Good dark-cycle Master.”

 

“Good dark-cycle, Jazz,” Master Prowl replied. “Thank you for supper.”

 

His Master was not just tired, he was in pain. Despite this, he had not given into temper, he had not shown any at all, he had not dipped a door at the rug, or the cost of the stain. It did not seem real, it felt like a memory flux he was going to be rudely ripped from but, Jazz realized it was real. They had gotten very lucky with this master, luckier than the slave had first thought. Some Praxian medic had prescribed the mech with Ex Aurae, not that he appeared remotely interested in following medic’s orders, there must have been a reason for the prescription. Most users of Ex Aurae, and abusers of Amalgii did so without a medic’s direction but the venom was prescribed from dozens of ailments, some imagined, and some real. There was something very real that was causing Master Prowl pain, pain bad enough to seek out a medic, and bad enough to send his brother to the Auction. It was not Jazz’s problem, and yet... No, it was not his problem. Still in disbelief at their master’s mercy, the progenitor checked on the twins. He fussed over their blankets, and kissed their helms. They did not stir when he sat at the end of their berth, and dropped his helm against his knees.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, a little of Prowl's perspective, and things get worse, and better for our family of Amalgii.

When Jazz onlined, it was late in the light-cycle. Feeling disoriented, and aching all over, he wondered how the Twins could have let him recharge this late. He felt like utter slag, but climbed out of his berth anyways. If he could not get up the courage to ask his master to feed, Jazz was fragged. His plating was prickly, and his frame ached right down to his struts. Masters had starved him before, he had been starved before he had ended up back in the Auction, but nothing had ever felt quite as bad as this. It was impossible not to resent his master, even if Jazz doubted that he was being intentionally cruel. When the Amalgus had asked him if he had fuelled during the light-cycle it had been clear by his response that he had honest to fragging Primus forgotten. If the mech was that bad at caring for his own frame, he could easily be worse with Jazz and his mechlings, it did not bode well for them. Dragging his peds a little, he walked out of his berthroom, disengaged the lock and went in to see what they had been occupying themselves with all light-cycle.

 

“Bitties?” He asked. Immediately Jazz understood that something was terribly wrong. They were curled up, back to back, their blanket tossed away, little frames shivering. “Sweetlings!”

 

“‘Geni,” Sideswipe whined, faceplates screwed up in a pitiful grimace.

 

“It’s okay, Sides, Geni’s here, Geni’ll make it better,” Jazz lifted the mechling onto his lap and shuddered with horror. Sideswipe was way too hot. He checked the brand, the nanite gel had not absorbed yet, but it had not flaked off either. It was not enough, the progenitor realized, his creation had to have been in the grip of a raging infection. Because they were split sparks, and felt each other’s pain like their own, it was possible that Sunny was suffering from sympathy pain. As soon as he reached for Sunstreaker, Jazz knew this faint hope was gone. His first emerged was just as hot as his twin. “Okay Sunny, bitty I got ya. We’re gonna have a shower, make us feel better.”

 

They whimpered with one miserable voice, and clung to his plating, faces buried in his neck. Jazz’s spark was racing. He could not lose them, he could not bear it. The Twins were everything. This life he was trapped it could not be worth suffering if not for them. In the short vorns of their lives, his creations had become his single reason to live. Before them it had been stubborn pride, but interfacial slavery had a way of stripping every thread of pride from a mechanism’s spark, Jazz did not have enough left to live on alone. Juggling them ease, even as his frame shook with fear, the Amalgus turned the shower own, and set the temperature to cold. As he stepped under the spray, steam filled the air as the solvent touched his creations’ overheated frames. Feeling weak with fear, Jazz sank to the floor, and held the Twins on his lap. Even with the fear constricting his spark, he rocked them, and sang a happy song, he sang even as his voice went hoarse.

 

Eventually, the Twins cooled. They were still hot, still miserable but the bitlets had cooled enough that they were perking up, thank Primus. Jazz turned off the shower but stayed seated in the stall. He felt too shaky to stand, at least just yet. It would take more than a shower to save them, he realized forlorn. Though he had been able to give them good, nutritious fuel the last couple of mega-cycles, it was nothing close to enough to make up for a lifetime of malnutrition. Their frames did not have the resources to fight a system wide infection. His beloved bitties needed a medic. Even if Jazz had had functioning comms, he did not know the comm id of any medic in Praxus, not that one would come an Amalgus’ hail. He wished with everything in him for Ratchet, but them medic was far from Praxus. His origin had badgered Ratchet to evacuate Polihex before he had turned back into the desert to see to Doradus. It had taken far longer to convince the family friend than Punch had planned, which was how Jazz had been alone to face the army encroaching on the mouth of Doradus.

 

At least, the progenitor hoped Ratchet had evacuated. The medic was hot helmed enough to stalk right up to the Praxian soldiers swarming Polihex, and to give them slag. That mech had a glossa on him, and he feared no one. While Jazz knew his twin and originator had survived, he actually had no way to know if the Iaconian who had served as a second origin to him, was still alive. Jazz shook his helm, burying that fatalistic though. Ratchet was much too stubborn a mech to die at the servos of these freaks. As his strength returned, for the time being at least, Jazz climbed to his peds and carried the Twins back to their berth. He gave them their puzzles and kissed their hot little helms. As he straightened, his helm spun. They needed fuel, all three of them. Rather than energon cakes, Jazz filled two cubes with a mixture of coolant and energon. With Ratchet’s recipe in processor, he dug through the pantry, gathering the minerals his creations needed. It was no medgrade, it had no repair nanites, but it was something. In something of an afterthought, the progenitor made a third cube for himself, it could not hurt.

 

This was the way the mega-cycle went. Jazz gave them as much of the coolant heavy fuel as they would drink, and cradled with in cold showers when ever their temperatures spiked. It was a torture, watching them suffer and being unable to do anything to truly ease their discomfort. As he stood in the kitchen, preparing another round of fuel, the progenitor stared at the door, pleading for their master to return, but the joors ticked on with no sign of the Praxian. He cursed the mechs designation as he covered his mechlings in a cold, damp towel so that they could finally get a little recharge. One mega-cycle ended, and another began, and still Master Prowl did not return. Helpless, and despairing, Jazz sat on the floor at the foot of the berth and buried his face in his knees. Only joors before dawn, the Amalgus was startled online. Disoriented, he was not sure what had woken him, but then he heard now familiar pedsteps. He jumped to his peds and nearly fell on his face as his helm spinning. Instinctively relying on his training, Jazz kept his peds, although barely, and he palmed the door that separated the servants quarters from the habsuite proper

 

“Jazz!” His master looked genuinely alarmed as the slave leaned against the doorway.

 

“Master,” Jazz wept with relief.

 

“What happened?” The Praxian asked, walking quickly towards him.

 

“My bitties,” he explained, staring up at the taller mech, and speaking with a desperate plea. “They’re sick.”

 

“Show me,” Prowl ordered. Agonizing hope kept Jazz upright and he half ran and have staggered to his mechlings berth.

 

“They been runnin’ hot all mega-cycle,” Jazz explained, and he looked at his tiny creations through his tears. “I been runnin’ showers, givin’ coolant ‘n energon...”

 

“Let me see,” the Lord of Law said, and he peeled the towel off the mechlings and bent down.

 

Jazz’s spark caught in his throat as his master lived Sunstreaker off the berth. Every cable in his frame screamed for him to snatch his bitlet from the Praxian. He curled his servos into fists, digging his sharp digit tips in hard enough to hurt, his tears went from fearful to angry. Sunstreaker pulled his servos up over his face and made an almost inaudible whimper. Their master was stiff as he held the mechling, but gentler than the progenitor would have expected from a Praxian. Never taking his optics of the mech, Jazz watched as the Lord of Law brushed Sunstreaker’s servo away from his face with a light touch. The mechling’s optics brightened, and he stared at their master with the same expression his progenitor was. Sagging onto the berth, Jazz watched as Master Prowl lowered Sunstreaker back down onto the berth, before the slave could the vent he was holding, the Praxian reached for Sideswipe. The sickly mechling squawked miserably as he was lifted, and Jazz’s spark nearly seized. If the squawk angered their master, he showed no sign of it. Just as with Sunstreaker, he was gentle as he looked over the sparkling. When he touched Sideswipe’s helm, the mechling grabbed the Praxian’s servo and pressed his face into it, whimpering balefully., Only when he put the bitlet back down on the berth, did the Lord of Law gently withdraw his servo from the sick mechling’s grip.

 

“Will you show me your brand?” Master Prowl asked. His expression had largely returned to the neutrality he favoured, but Jazz was perceptive, and he caught the icy glint. It made him fear. He wanted to rage and scream, to lunge at this mech and took vent every horror on him, for making them wait and suffer so long but he did not move. As the flash of rage settle to simmer, the Amalgus heard his master repeat his question. “Will you show me your brand?”

 

“Uh?” Jazz stuttered before his processor caught up with him.

 

The mech had actually bothered to ask him... Mutely, the Amalgus detached the offending armour. Would he be angry that Jazz had not had the processor to replace it yet? He was not surprised when the Lord of Law touched him, he had braced himself for it to stop himself from cringing away, but he was surprised with the gentleness with which his master’s digits brush against his chassis, and he was startled by how cold the Praxian’s digits felt. It was soothing. Processor falling back to the twins, he stammered, anxiously: “I thought their brands mighta got infected. I tried, Master, I was using nanite gel.”

 

“You most certainly have an infection,” the Lord of Law replied, and he withdrew his servo. How could he be so... flat. Jazz had never met a Praxian that was forever this calm. For the first time, the slave bothered to look down at himself. The brand was bubbled up. He winced, finally feeling it, that explain his weakness. “There is more that concerns me, it could be rust rash as well. Given the way all three of you are overheating, I suspect you have all contracted Pirexis.”

 

“Pirexis,” the Amalgus echoed. He knew what it was. It had been endemic in the Dead End time and again, a disease of filth and detris. But thanks to the work of a certain crotchety medic, it had become a thing of the past, vorns prior to the invasion. With hindsight, the Auction was the ideal breeding ground for the nanoscraplet that carried this plague. Jazz felt himself sag, and he fell against the berth. It was a highly contagious, and highly virulent plague.

 

“It does not appear too far advanced,” Master Prowl said, and he took a step back “I will summon a medic.”

 

As his master made his retreat, Jazz stared after him. If they passed it to the Lord of Law, what then? Would he sell them as punishment for the offence? Pirexis should have been a death sentence for the sparklings, maybe even for him. It would be a death sentence for any poor Amalgus that fell ill with the infection. The director would never approve the expenditure of medics, and the overseers would never be bothered to provide the coolant and fuel that would give the sick mechs the slightest chance of surviving. He should have grieved for them but Jazz was too numb. A medic... his master thought they were worthy of an actual medic. Jazz knew Pirexis was easily treatable, there could be complications, the Twins were so young that was complicated enough, but they had a chance, because of Master Prowl. Gratitude did not describe the sensation swirling through his spark.

 

***

 

“You haven’t been to your berth yet, Baron,” Medic Hoist observed as Prowl beckoned him inside.

 

“I had only just returned,” he replied, and he pretend miss the medics pointed look. “This way.”

 

“We’ll talk about _that_ later,” the x-frame said. It was a promise.

 

The medic would either keep the promise, or forget after he was absorbed in the care of his patients, ultimately it made no difference. He and Hoist had gone through this dance before, neither left their arguments particularly satisfied. Prowl was not keen on another futile argument, he and the medic were never going to agree on how he chose to operate. His helm was throbbing, the pressed energon he had downed as he had been waiting for Hoist had done nothing to raise his energy levels, it was recharge and not fuel that he needed at this present klik. Ultimately more concerned with the state of the Amalgii in his... possession, the Praxian led the medic into the old servant’s quarters, prepared to suffer another very late dark-cycle.

 

Jazz, as the procreator had designated himself had been judicious with Prowl’s credits. The Lord of Law saw only a box of blocks, and a small chest for toys, it was hardly anything to be shared between two mechlings. Given the potent relief in the mech’s optics when Prowl brought Hoist in, he had not entirely believed that his... master... would actually bring him a proper medic. Though the stoic Praxian preferred not to mull over the question of just how many masters would pay that expense, or how many Amalgii might be on their death beds because their masters could not be bothered, Prowl’s battle computer had a will all of its own. Many, it whispered, too innumerable to count. No, the Lord of Law argued, with himself, more Praxian had fair sparks that cruel, but those that kept Amalgii, could they be anything but cruel? They could be changed, their processors, their ways. If he did not believe this his entire life was a waste, but he did not believe. He could see no redemption for slavers.

 

“Jazz,” he said, giving no outside sign of his inner conflict. “Medic Hoist.”

 

“Don’t you all look miserable,” the medic crooned, sympathetically. He ran his sensors over all three Amalgii. “I’ll need a coolant sample to be sure, but I think you were right, Prowl, this looks like Pirexis to me. Just relax, Jazz, I’m going take a look at the bitlets first. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

 

“Please,” the mech said, desperation thick in his field.

 

Prowl wanted to leave, he very nearly did but he caught the Amalgus’ pleading look in his peripheral vision, and he felt compelled to stay. He stood completely frozen next to the door not wanting to think of the reason Jazz would want his presence, but unable to think of anything else. The Lord of Law was anything but a dumb mech, and he knew full well what crimes the degenerates who kept Amalgii perpetuated, or they would have been crimes had the deeds had been committed against a Praxian, or any other frametype. There was no question this Amalgus had been a victim of horrific abuse. That hideous armour Jazz had purchased, Primus Prowl had seen courtesans with more concealing armour, it did nothing to hide the scars from a flail that scoured the mech’s back. They were not likely the worst of it. No, of course they were not, Jazz had bitlets, that alone was testament enough to how he had suffered. Given their young ages, and the general way of the trade, it seemed more likely that this Amalgus had carried the twins, but it was certainly possible that this was not the case. He was not going to ask, not now in any case. Likely at least in part due to Prowl’s status as a purus, the mech had decided he was safe from that abuse while under the Lord of Law’s optics, he had no way to know that Hoist would have murdered Prowl if he thought the full-framed Praxian was abusing the Amalgus.

 

“Would you mind if the Baron held him, Jazz?” The medic asked, jerking Prowl’s focus into the present. Both mechs stared at him.

 

“No,” the Amalgus replied, slowly. That was a lie, Prowl saw that clear enough, Jazz minded very much, but submission to the will of Praxians had been thoroughly beaten into him. The Amalgus stared more passed him that straight at him, deference he had no doubt learned painfully, but there was temper there, barely restrained. Hoist on the other servo looked the Lord of Law dead on, a command in his optics. The medic did not care if Prowl was uncomfortable with the idea, not a single iota.

 

Stiffly, Prowl crossed the room and sat on the berth, uncomfortably close to the... Primus damn it... his slave, within reach of the procreator. It was for the mech’s comfort, though Jazz was unlikely to understand that. Hoist placed one of the mechlings onto the Lord of Law’s lap, and Prowl glanced over to Jazz to see how he was holding the other mechling. They looked nearly identical, the bitlets. The mechling the procreator was hold had broad audials that flared out at the side of his helm like fins, the mechling Prowl was holding had audials that went straight up, horns like his procreator. To his amazement the mechling wriggled back into his lap, and curled hismelf into a ball against the Praxian’s lap, reminding the Lord of Law a little of Bluestreak.

 

There was an adage about beggars and choosers that would be fitting here. He did not know which mechling this was, but the bitlet whined pitifully as Hoist made him unfurl and lightly palpated his midsection. Disruptions in the fuel system were common enough with Pirexis, but it made the care of these sparklings a little more complicated. Their protoforms were so dull, they were already at a horrible disadvantage. Jazz had not yet taken his optics off him, though he was being surreptitious about it. For the Amalgus’ sake, Prowl kept his optics low, avoiding any chance of their optics locking. The mech was in enough distress, and the Lord of Law did not want to see him on his knees again, begging for mercy. That memory made Prowl was to purge.

 

“I’m going to give the three of you a series of injections,” Hoist explained as he prepared the jet injectors. “One with nanites specifically programmed to attack the nanoscraplets, one to boost your anti viral systems, and another to your self-repair systems. They’re not going to like this much. After they’ve recovered from I’ll come back to give them their vaccinations, they won’t like that either. I don’t imagine they’ve had any.”

 

“No,” their procreator confirmed. It was one of those failures in logic that drove Prowl mad. It was infuriatingly reckless to forget all common cleanliness practices because his framekin thought these Amalgii were less. But if the Amalgii could carry and suffer the same diseases as Praxians and other frametypes, if they had the same components, the same level of intellect, clearly they were mechanisms, not mechanimals. The only way you could deny this reality was to bury your helm in the sand. Prowl wondered how many of his framekin were buried down to their knees.

 

“You first, little one,” the medic said as he crouched next to Prowl, and the Praxian’s doorwings shot up a few centimetres.

 

The sparkling’s procreator watched, fixed on medic and mechling. There was no reaction from the mechling to the first injection, but with the second, he led out a sharp squawk, and wriggled away from the mechling, seeking shelter, he buried his helm against the Lord of Law’s frame. As there was still one injection left, and seeing the mechling thrash, and writhed away from the medic. Prowl lifted him up, and draped him over his chassis, and held him gently there. Bluestreak had liked this, when nothing else would do, when the sickly mechlings had been forced to suffer another shot or examination, and so too did this Amalgus bitlet. He relaxed, sagged really, and his small digits gripped Prowl’s plating. Though the mechling flinched, he did not fight the medic when Hoist gave him a final injection. Hoist present a cube fitted with spout to bitlet. At first he rejected it, but after a little encouragement the mechling began to drink. Stiffly, the Praxian helped him hold it as he seemed to tired and weak to manage himself. Prowl felt like a prized idiot, as he always did when faced with sparklings. He was utterly terrible with them, but this one was desperate enough to tolerate his incompetence, much like Bluestreak had been.

 

“Such a brave spark,” Hoist cooed. “The medgrade should sit nicely, hey bitlet? Now for you, sweetspark... You’re a little suspicious one, aren’t you?”

 

Prowl glanced down at the mechling the procreator held. He had his helm angled in such away that he could glower at either Hoist or him without moving more than his optics. Some bitlets were shy of strangers, this was closer to contempt than shyness. The Lord of Law felt indescribably weary. Chirring softly, Jazz scooped his mechling up and nuzzled his helm against the bitlet’s. As Hoist administered the injections, the Amalgus cooed softly, distracting his creation from experience. It almost sounded like sparkling babble, but after a couple of nanokliks Prowl realized that Jazz was speaking in another language, pitching his tone no doubt in hope the Praxian would catch on. It must have been a Polihexian, or even a language only known to Amalgii. Though the Lord of Law was instantly curious as to what the mech was saying, he kept himself mute. Let them have this, he told himself, Praxus had taken everything else. Hoist gave Jazz another cube and the procreator rocked lightly as he encouraged the sullen sparkling to drink, and he did, greedily. With both mechlings tended to, the medic turned his attention to their procreator. Jazz did not flinch as Hoist gave him three injections of his own, and he took his own cube of medgrade with a relieved thanks.

 

“As soon as they’re settled I’ll treat the rust rash,” the x-frame explained, speaking to the Amalgus and not the Praxian. Prowl approved. He expected nothing less from Hoist. “You’ve all go some hot spots ready to bubble up. The fever should break in the next twenty to forty joors, you’ll all feel sluggish for an orn or so. I’ll leave medgrade with supplemental nanites, sparkling formula for the mechlings, full strength for you. The first blend you’ll drink twice a mega-cycle for the orn, the second formula you’ll start after, one cube a mega-cycle for the next forty mega-cycles.”

 

“I think Sideswipe is out,” Jazz said. Prowl froze, and looked down. The bitlet was recharging soundly against his his chassis. He slowly withdrew the servo he had placed over the mechling’s back, and did not move a single cable, he did not even ventilate. Please do not cry...

 

“Smart bitlet,” Hoist declared. To the Lord of Law’s immense relief, the medic took the bitlet, Sideswipe, off of him, and laid him on the berth. The mechling made a little face, but did not online, not until Hoist wiped him chassis down, dissolving the nanite gel covering his brand, at this the bitlet’s vents hiccuped with a sob. Prowl clenched his jaw when he saw “his” mark on the small sparkling’s chassis, the source of the tiny mech’s pain. Sideswipe batted the x-frame’s servo. It had to have hurt him. To brand a bitlet was absolutely unconscionable. “Mm... This bit isn’t rust rash, I’m afraid, a secondary rust infection for sure. It looks minor still, but there’s no sense leaving it.”

 

As the medic ran a plating regenerator over the brand, Prowl planned. They had finally made a mistake. The faceless holding companies that controlled the Auction had escaped significant oversight from the Lord of Law’s ministry, their business falling into a grey area between the trade in goods or the trade in livestock, protected by the elite addicts that depended on their “merchandise”. While Prowl had been working tirelessly to apply some manner of law to that market, he had faced considerable resistance from the highest levels of the government he called himself a part of. It was not merely a matter of profit and addiction that had kept the Auction from falling under the lawmech’s hammer, but revenge. The empire had taken considerable loses in the conquest of Polihex, the greatest of those losses had happened in the Wastes, the rumoured territory of the mysterious Amalgii, where the emperor himself had been wounded, wounds that would kill him in the coming vorns. As he had slowly, and painfully wasted away, his lower half severed, and the wounds contaminated in someway that had made restoring his ruined frame impossible, the emperor had become addicted to Ex Aurae, and the suffering of those he blamed for his fate. At first in sympathy, and then in addiction, many members of the court, and upper classes had taken Amalgii as slaves. Like the sycochants they were, whatever the emperor did, the sheepacron did as well.

 

Prowl had stood no hope in convincing the agonized and bitter mech to come to his senses, but his death had left a mechling on the empire’s throne, and Smokescreen the Young had not inherited or learned any of his progenitor’s bitterness. In only one more vorn Smokescreen would received his third tier youngling upgrades, and he would be free from the Regency that had ruled in his designation since he had taken the throne. There would still be a council, and advisers, there would always be a council, but the Regents of which Prowl was one, would no longer be able to overrule him. Gauntlet and Halogen had spent the early vorns of the Regency enriching themselves and their friends with the empire’s coffers, and they had largely ignored the meching emperor, but Prowl had not, and the clever orphan had latched on to him, willing to learn from the dour mech, eager for any attention.

 

The Consort, his originator had died only quartexes after his progenitor, leaving the emperor an orphan, and leaving many question about the sickly newling who had emerged joors before the Consort’s sudden collapse. It had been a scandal. There was no way Bluestreak could have been kindled by the Emperor, he had lost his array, along with every component below his fuel tank. If the blow had only been a little higher, the Emperor would have died in the desert. Only been in the last vorns had the other Regents realized their mistake, but while but while they now insisted on being allotted time to tutor Smokescreen in their sectors of “expertise”, the youngling emperor continued to look to Prowl for council, a fact the Lord of Law took ruthlessly encouraged. Those old Dukes might do their best to make it difficult for Prowl to meet alone with Smokescreen, but it did not stop him. Whatever the joor, the youngling sought him out, and the Baron gave him his time, even if it meant rising before dawn and staying out well after moonrise. When Smokescreen came into his own, Prowl intended for the Auction to be taken down, the prisoners of war, which ultimately all these Amalgii were, be freed, irregardless of any financial toll, and he was confident the young emperor would be fully on board.

 

“That feels better, doesn’t it Sideswipe?” Hoist asked, smoothing his servo over the mechling’s chassis, drawing the Lord of Law’s optics to “his” mark emblazoned on the little Amalgus’ chassis.

 

The brand remained, of course it remained, Prowl thought, bitterly. But at least now it was integrated into the bitlet’s protoform, Sideswipe would suffer no further pain from it. Hoist coated his servos in a thin, shiny oil and massaged it into the mechling’s protoform, attending to the rust rash before it could explode over the poor things whole frame. His twin, the would-be artist, was handed over next for treatment. When the gel was dissolved from his brand, and the infected mark exposed to the air, he made no sound, though he made quite the face. Prowl wondered and worried if his lifelong ordeal had made him mute. His twin took his place in their procreator’s lap, and dozily watched, chewing on his knuckles, self soothing as sparklings and newlings often did. Prowl found himself staring at Sunstreaker, as the mechling stared at him. He was confident he was being judged. This bitlet had every reason to hate him, for his frame alone, as their procreator did.

 

“The bedding should be laundered, to kill any nanoscraplets your frames might have shed,” the medic declared as he gave Sunstreaker the same oil massage he had his brother.

 

“I will take care of it,” Prowl declared, before Jazz could say anything. “I have spare blankets.”

 

“‘M gonna stay wit them til they’re better,” the Amalgus said, less of a declaration, and more of a request. “We can share...”

 

“Whatever you wish,” the Lord of Law replied. He caught the medic’s smile, and chose not to bristle indignantly.

 

“What about you, Master?” Jazz asked, surprising the Praxian. He had not expected the concern, voiced or unvoiced. “It’s contagious.”

 

“I was inoculated vorns ago,” Prowl replied. “As will Medic Hoist have been. No one else here will become ill.”

 

“That’s right, it’s been a routine vaccine for ten thousand mega-cycles.,” Hoist replied, he was not shy with his contempt. Though he was no slave, as the creation of a Praxian and a Tagonian, Hoist had been relegated to the furthest edges of Praxian society. His patients were the poorest of the empire’s residents, not even the middle class would want to admit to seeing an x-frame medic. “A damn shame the empire can’t be bothered to share the formula, typical of Praxus... Baron, hold them while I see to Jazz.”

 

Hoist did not give Prowl a chance to protest, both mechlings were deposited in his arms with another glyph. The suspicious mechling froze, and the Praxian commiserated with his discomfort. Sideswipe, however grabbed his brother and pulled him close, unconcerned with whoever’s arms he found himself in. Perhaps reassured by his brother, Sunstreaker relaxed. Prowl kept his optics downcast, certain that their procreator would be watching, and certain he would shatter if forced to hold his master’s optics for even a nanoklik. Hoist took longer on Jazz, the infection considerably more deeply entrenched. He had prioritized his creations over himself. Though they must have been forced on him, the mech loved them deeply. It was a wonder to the Lord of Law, he did not know that he would be capable of that deep a love from so dark a place.

 

“If your plating starts itchy, take an oil bath,” the medic ordered as he applied oil to his patient’s protoform. Prowl felt the Amalgus looked at him

 

“There is one in the main washracks you are welcome to use,” he said without looking up, and saving the mech from asking. “If you’re finished, Medic Hoist, I will get the spare blanket.”

 

“I’m done for now,” Hoist replied. Ducked low, Jazz reached over and slowly dragged his mechlings back to himself, glancing up at his master out the corner of one optic. “Just relax, Jazz, I’ll strip the berths.”

 

Prowl was ecstatic to escape. His spark rhythm had settled now that the sparklings were back with their procreator where they belonged. As tempting as it might have been to linger, and to extend his reprieve it would unconscionably be cruel to Jazz. The Amalgus had gotten comfortable with Hoist, the medic was a non-threatening sort to begin with, once you got passed his size, but the Praxian was not keen to over-stress the sick mech. They would need more spare blankets, and berth covers, in general, Prowl realized. Jazz had not purchased much at all for the mechings, just one berth, just a blanket and covers for each berth. Though he was probably wary that he had ordered too much, it looked to Prowl like precious little. Even with free reign, he had purchased nothing for himself except linens for his own berth, though that hardly counted. What could Prowl buy him? Nothing he realized as he had not the slightest idea what the mech would like. If he wanted to read, there were no shortage of datapads in the livingroom, but they were all written in the Praxian dialect, the histories and stories written for a Praxian audience. Jazz was likely sick to death of all things Praxian. Perhaps Prowl would think of something. Who did he think he was going to fool? Barricade would attest Prowl was a terrible gift giver.

 

From the storage closet in his berthroom the Lord of Law gathered linens identical to those that were on his own berth, and returned to the Amalgii’s quarters. Hoist had done as he had said, the sparklings’ berth was bare. Seeing the medic standing with Jazz, examining his back, Prowl walked over to the berth, and set the blanket aside. Those scars looked deep, deep enough they could still be paining the Amalgus, though on the surface they had healed. If the medic had a therapy that would bring him relief, or even clear the scarring altogether, Prowl would be pleased to pay for it. His own berth pad was thicker than this one Jazz had purchased, and so the cover did not fit, but it was good enough. He draped the blanket over the berth, and replaced the flattened, ancient pillows altogether with softer ones of his own. Making the berth was a basic task he thought nothing of doing, but as he smoothed the blanket, the Praxian felt optics burning into his back and he straightened stiffly.

 

“If you require anything, Jazz, ask,” Prowl declared, and he looked to the door. “I will work from my office here until you are over the worst of it. I believe you could all use the rest.”

 

“Let me follow you out,” Hoist said. “Jazz, if anything bothers you, comm me and I’ll be over. My clinic _will_ be programmed into the computer.”

 

“Thank you for everything,” the procreator replied replied.

 

He was not going to escape the medic’s lecture was he? Prowl held the door for Hoist and followed him out. Prowl was no doubt the strangest master the Amalgus had suffered. It should not have made him self-conscious, he was a peculiar mech, everyone had always said so, and he did not want to be anything like the mechs who had left deep scars on slave’s frame. By choice he had lived alone, intentionally and entirely alone, with not so much as a maid to clean his habsuite. Having lived this was so long, with no one but Barricade for a guest, he had forgotten how his domesticity would look to an outsider. The very first thing he had done after moving into this habsuite was to dismiss the servants that had come with it. They had been given generous severances and references and Prowl knew both mech had found new postings within a quartex, and he reasoned they would both prefer the employers they had found over him, they would never be forced to keep to his irregular schedule. Jazz would learn not to bother as well.

 

“Go to your berth, Baron,” Hoist ordered, before Prowl could respond, he raised his servos, and spoke pointedly. “Berth. You look like slag. The way you’re going you will very really work yourself to death. It doesn’t have to be like that. You could have millenia if you would just take a break.”

 

“I would rather die young than live millions of stellar-cycle in leisure” Prowl replied. It was the truth. He could not image spending vorns laying on his couch, or attending parties and doing nothing with his processor. That would be a fate worse than an early death, there was no question of that.

 

“Do _less_ ,” the medic countered, and Prowl’s doorwings dropped. “Not nothing, less. Recharge, and fuel, and rest before your frame is on the verge of collapsing. You could have more time than you think to guide that youngling.”

 

“I have a time bomb in my helm,” the Praxian replied. Optimistic as the medic might have been, he truly could not know how long or how little time Prowl had left. There was only a vorn left before Smokescreen could rule in his own voice, but Gauntlet and Halogen could do considerable damage in that time. If left to their devices they could mould the impressionable mechling into a dilettante like them. Prowl would not take the chance. “I cannot know how much time I have, but I do know that Ihave work that must be done in whatever time I do have.”

 

“Stubborn as ever,” Hoist sighed, he looked back to the door that separate what had been servants’ quarters from the main living quarters. “Stubbornest mechanism I’ve had the privilege and I once studied under a mech who slag talked Sentinel Prime. You aren’t doing _him_ any favours I hope you know.”

 

“Pardon?” Prowl asked. The change of subject should not felt so abrupt as to turn the Praxian’s helm to sludge but he was at the bitter end of his reserves. Hoist was likely right, he no doubt did look like slag, he certainly felt like it. He did not ask for a blocker, or even think to reach into his stash. If the Amalgii needed something in the dark-cycle he needed to be able to respond.

 

“He needs to _feed_ , it isn’t a sparkling tale or urban legend, it’s very real,” the x-frame said, his visor flashed with exasperation, and Prowl’s doorwings dipped with embarrassment. “His frame is starving, and all the energon and oil on Cybertron won’t save him. If you don’t let him feed, or bring someone in for him to feed on he will either get so desperate he jumps you, or he will very really starve to death. With what he’s experienced, the latter is more likely. Those mechlings need their progenitor alive. As it is his frame is nearly as malnourished as those mechlings, he can’t afford to go without vitae energon much longer. He won’t take from me.. doesn’t trust me enough I think.”

 

“I will take that under advisement,” the Lord of Law replied, feeling overwhelming dread. His helm throbbed. There was a painful pinch behind his optics. “The joors is late. When did you wish to come for a follow up?”

 

“One orn,” Hoist said. “We’ll say 16:00 joors. Be here. I might have earned his trust, but he feels safest with you. Better yet, just take the orn off. You could use the break.”

 

“I will make arrangements,” Prowl replied, he followed the x-frame to the door. He would not take the orn off, but he could work in his home office. That was alredy his plan. “Good dark-cyle, and thank you for coming. I made a donation to your clinic.”

 

“You already made a donation,” the medic argued as he stood in the doorway, visor flashing again, but with something closer to fondness.

 

“These are special circumstances,” the Praxian said.

 

“Not really, but thank you,” Hoist replied. “Some quartex you are just about what keeps my lights on. Go to berth.”

 

He would, but not immediately. Frame far too tense for Prowl to even hope to recharge, he went to his washracks instead and ran the solvent shower on hot, stepped in to the obscenely wide stall, and turned so his doorwings and back were under the spray. Gauntlet was a damnable mech, a damnably frustrating cur of the very worst order. The scolding spray seeped into the gaps of the Praxian’s armour, and ran over his tight cables and struts. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders and doors was rinsed down the drain. Halogen was more of a nuisance than a real foil, but the emperor’s uncle was a burr in Prowl’s side. Because Halogen inevitably voted for whatever Gauntlet wanted, the Lord of Law was always overruled, with the exception of matters specifically tied to the Hall of Justice. These sporadic joors they were keeping, in hopes to keep him from Smokescreen were wearing him thin, but they would run out of patience for them before Prowl did. He had the stamina to outlast them both, glitch be damned. Perhaps they thought if they pushed him, if they sent him into crashes he would admit defeat, but they were wrong. Prowl was much too stubborn to bow to fools, and Smokescreen was too precious to lose. If he died on his peds, defying them to the last ventilation, he gladly would.

 

The pressure in his helm suddenly burst, and Prowl fell against the shower with a lound thump as his frame locked. Senses dulled, he hardly felt the pain as his entire frame volume of coolant rushed up to his helm. All attempt to cancel the emergency shut down failed, and he began to fade. As his extremities went limp as his joints unlocked, the Lord of Law sagged to the floor. The darkness swallowed him up as his upper faculties shut down. One of these mega-cycle one of these episode would kill him. Not this mega-cycle, however. Slowly, his senses returned as his processor booted back up. He ached, more than he had when he had entered the shower, a damnable side effect of his crashes, though his helm was clearer. Prowl pushed himself back from the wall. At least he had not fallen on his face or doors, he had slid down versus fallen, and there was no need to call Hoist back, thank Primus. That much more exhausted than he had been before, the Praxian climbed up onto his knees, disgusted by how unstable he felt, and how greatly his legs protested. When he finally summoned the will to stand, he fell back against the stall with another thumb. Cursing his frame, Prowl pushed up from the wall. There was a noise over the rush of the shower, and the Lord of Law, turned it off just in time to hear a voice just beyond the door.

 

“Master?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates are not usually going to be this frequent but I've been off work sick with a dual infection and this is about the only thing that has been making me happy. You may all benefit from my suffering... Yay?
> 
> No worries, I'm getting better, my immune system just sucks.

“A moment!”

 

For a nanoklik after he answered the Amalgus, Prowl stared at the door, doorwings pulled up in a tight ‘v’. The mech should have been recharging, Hoist must have given him this order, he should not have been close enough to hear... Perhaps the slave listened as well the master. Just thinking of himself with that glyph made the Praxian sick, and he leaned back against the wet tile. Unless he sold them, this was what he was. Freeing them would have been ideal, but Prowl was not idealistic. Polihex’s prince might have sold the principality to Praxus to save his throne and plating, the vassal state not suddenly become passive. On the contrary its mechanisms defied their Praxian overlords, and their puppet prince at ever turn. In the first vorns that final stand in the desert, the rebels had launched surprise attacks on Petrex and other border cities, dealing significant blows to the infrastructure. In fact, the Smelting Pit that had long divided Praxus from the Wastes and Polihex had been attacked, bombed, the magma had drained back into the planet’s core. Repairs had been complicated by ongoing rebel sabotage. With these continued delays, it would be vorns before the Smelting Pit filled again, Prowl was not particular displeased by any of this.

 

Seeing their preferred place of execution rendered useless, and the continued sabotage causing chaos in the Petrex region, the other Regents, with the council had ordered a huge swath of Praxus standing army to be permanently stationed along that border. Some of the sabotage was being blamed on Praxian sympathizers, Prowl only hoped it was true. As a result of this, however no Praxian was permitted to cross the border, not even a Regent would be given the exception, especially not in the company of slaves. Especially not Prowl, Gauntlet would lose his helm. As Lord of Law, Prowl had been made to tour the sight, an to address the loss of Praxus execution sight, he had been pleased enough to. Public executions were a spectable he had always loathed, and the loss of the Smelting Pit had made for an excellent excuse to amend the ancient, brutal penal code, and to bring reason to the judiciary to the Hall of Justice.

 

Quietly, he had banned the barbaric practice of Empurata, and restricted the use of the death penalty to only the most extreme of cases, and he was the only mechanism who could impose it. Instead of death, the Glyph of Law now had it written that spark containment was the price for serial rape and murder, for most severe offences where the warped criminals were unlikely to respond to rehabilitation. Terms of detention, and/or community service was left for those who might be saved from their poor judgment. Gauntlet and Halogen had been conveniently distracted by other edicts while Prowl had gotten these drastic amendments to the penal code passed in law. The timing had not been coincidental. Adultery and creating out of bonding should not have been crimes. Whether or not the Temples looked down on these practices, the law was not meant to govern morality. But decriminalizing either was a scandalizing prospect to many fundamentalist Praxians, the other Regents and Priests included. At some point, the Lord of Law would put true effort into seeing those laws changed, but they could not be the priority, not at this time. As a balm on his own conscience Prowl had snuck a change into the law book that changed the penalties to both crimes along with his other reforms. A fine was certainly better than imprisonment.

 

It occurred belated to the Praxian that their might have been something wrong, Jazz might have needed something, or his creations and he quickly pushed off the wall, and he quickly reached for his towel to dry himself. Taking stock of himself in the mirror, Prowl frowned. Hoist’s description of him had been apt, he did look like slag. Looking at himself in the mirror, the Lord of Law tried to better mask the pain the raging helmache was causing him. He managed, but the efforts took his full concentration, and they were not fully successful. The corners of his optics were still tight, and they were not bright, nor clear. Prowl would have done better to make this effort before Hoist had come, but that was moot now. Replacing his towel, and he looked his frame over. His shoulder was scuffed, but it was a minor imperfection, at least he had not been dented. Deciding he was presentable enough, Prowl stepped from the washracks, to his surprise Jazz was hovering only steps away.

 

“Do you require something?” The Lord of Law asked.

 

“Ya haven’t fuelled,” the Amalgus said, Prowl stared at him, confused. This was what had him out of his berth?

 

“You do not need to worry about that,” Prowl replied.

 

“I’ll make ya a cube,” Jazz said, he turned quickly on his pedtips and went straight for the kitchen.

 

Prowl rebooted his optics. It was a good tactic, one that reminded him of Barricade. Rather than argue with him, the mech had simply steamrolled right over him, though less overtly than the Praxian’s brother would have dared. Drained though he might have been, and tempting as his berth was, a cube was not a terrible idea. His tank was empty, the pressed energon had passed through his systems already. He would recharge better if low funeral warnings did not wake him early. This was something he had actually noticed the last couple of mega-cycles, since the Amalgii had been dropped off in his habsuite, and Jazz had taken it upon himself to leave plates or bowls of fuel. Not this dark-cycle, of course, the procreator had been suitably distracted... he had been frantic...

 

Hoist had called Jazz their progenitor. Had the medic asked when they had been alone that brief klik, had his scans told him? Prowl would ask, at some point, though what did it really matter? Jazz was the mechlings’ sole procreator, whether he had been the one to carry them, or the one to sire them, it made no real difference. Except that if he had carried them, they might actually have Praxian code mixed in with their Amalgii code. It was one of the questions that kept Prowl awake. How many of these slavers had sold off mechanisms with their own code into interfacial abuse? Maybe he would asked... maybe not. Really, did he actually want to know?

 

“Master?” The slave called and Prowl could not stop himself from hunching his doorwings and shoulders.

 

He crossed the room, and stiffly sat on one of the stools that lined the long counter. On those rare mega-cycles where he and Barricade had taken fuel together here, this was where they sat. Never at that useless formal table. It was never more than just him and Barricade. Their procreators did their business from Petrex where they counted amongst the most elite of mechanisms. In the capital, they were nothing remarkable. Prowl’s titled had not come with a barony, and it had not brought any new privilege to his kin. His procreators had not been back to the capital in a very long time. The thought of them returning, and wanting to rub shoulders with their betters, Prowl at their side, was something he dreaded. If and when they return, he would make certain he was busy. Even if he was on his deathberth.

 

“This is not necessary,” the Praxian said as he washed the Amalgus fuss over a cube.

 

“I wanted to thank ya,” Jazz replied, in a soft, deep voice. He turned away from Prowl to fill a with rich purple energon. The Praxian frowned. This was where the Amalgus had spent the most of his credits, fuel. Prowl did not think the pantry had ever been stocked, his procreators certainly had not. They had been more concerned with outfitting the habsuite to suit the image, or rather, their image of a Lord of Law. Though he considered himself a neat mech, Prowl never bothered to put the crystals for his press away off the counter. That press was the one appliance he had ever use. His domesticity did not extend to cooking. Considering this mech had nothing to his designation, did not truly even have _that,_ a cube might have been the only thanks the procreator could think of. It would have been cruel to reject it. “I was sure I was gonna lose’em.”

 

“I apologize for leaving you to wait so long,” Prowl replied. Thanks should not have been necessary. Summoning a medic should not have been seen as an extraordinary act. “I will program my comm into the computer, along with Hoist’s so you may reach me if there is a problem.”

 

“That’d be good,” the Amalgus said, he turned as he crumbled minerals into the energon he had poured. He pushed it across the counter. He never quite looked Prowl in the face, living this way would be exhausting. There was a question on the mech’s processor, one the Praxian was sure he already knew, and his tank dropped. It would have been merciful if Prowl would just speak up himself, but his glossa was tied. Had Jazz heard the conversation/argument between himself and Hoist? This Amalgii walked about in a Polihexian frame, their audials were legendary.

 

“You should recharge,” the Lord of Law suggested. He looked down at the cube still sitting on the counter. He had not recognized the minerals Jazz had added to the fuel. Not that he was concerned, itwas unlikely to be poison. Jazz had already had every opportunity. “Medic Hoist would expect you to rest.”

 

“Can’t just yet,” Jazz replied. “Still a little... twitchy. He’s... a different sorta medic.”

 

“He operates the Free Clinic,” Prowl explained. The conversation was forced, but he preferred it when the mech just spoke to him. He never wanted to see him on his knees again. “I knew he would care for you properly.”

 

Except the Lord of Law was miserable at small talk. Prowl kept his optics down as he fuelled. It was not entirely just for Jazz’s benefit. He did not know how to live with other mechanisms. The very first dark-cycle in his first habsuite, far away from his procreator’s estate, had been one of the best of his life. Most Praxians remained with their kin, in large family properties, or at least within the same city Barricade had set the precedence by moving out to attend the Enforcer Academy in the empire’s capital, his choice of career had not sat well with their procreators. They had been absolutely out of sorts when Prowl had followed his brother’s lead, they had not been prepared for him to show that kind of defiance. But that function had suited him, and he had avoided his procreators and their ringing servos as often as possible. He had felt real pride as he had risen the ladder, on his own merit, even faster than his brother. Back then, his goal had been to be Praefectus Vigilum, but the outgoing Lord of Law had taken a shine to him, and after much debate and consideration, young Enforcer had seen all the ways he good grow and change Praxus for the better, and he had resigned from the Enforcers.

 

Only Barricade had held any doubts, perhaps because their procreators had been so thrilled. Prowl had been made abaron, something their untitled procreators had always coveted. There was no way his brother would be Vigilum Secondus if he were Praefectus Vigillum, the younger brother reasoned, it had worked out. That cozy little studio he had rented had not been suited to a baron, or a Lord of Law, the outgoing Lord, and Prowl’s procreators had agreed on that. His predecessor had sold him this habsuite, and had relocated quickly to the county. Prowl’s procreators had furnished the suite, before their creation could even return home from his first mega-cycle at the hall. Of course, he could have sent it all back, but the strategist in him preferred not to fight losing battles. Or perhaps, as Barricade had once grumbled, he might have just been a coward, he was being a coward now. Cowardice kept his optics down as he drank the fuel. There was bite to it, Prowl had not tasted before, but it was palatable enough. It was not as though he was picky about his fuel.

 

“You need to feed,” Prowl said, setting the empty cube down, feeling a burst of energy as his fuel tank became processing the energon instantly. Right. He had not fuelled since before the council session, and that had only been rust sticks. Jazz was looking down at him with a hopeful expression. “I could bring someone in.”

 

“Please,” there was that desperate plea in it, and his optics, all hope gone. Dread was so thick in his field, Prowl could taste it on his glossa, and it made him ill. That decided it, he could not bring someone in. He did not want to see this mech beg again.

 

“You will have to feed from me then,” the Praxian said, keeping the regret from his voice, bowing to necessity. “Hoist suggested it was critical.”

 

“I could go longer,” Jazz offered, a little of that hope returning, but more guarded than it had been before. It was not necessarily a lie, it might have been more akin to desperate optimism. Prowl was closer to a fatalist than an optimist. His optics passed over the Amalgus’ expression, before dropping again. The Lord of Law saw enough, saw fear and hope and resignation, all at once.

 

“There is no need,” Prowl declared. He did not make fists, even as he cursed his brother. Though even in his processor it was not even half sparked. This mech, those mechlings might not have been alive to see sunrise in another Praxian’s habsuite. Accepting this did not ease Prowl’s bitterness, it made it worse, but he swallowed it all the same. “Your recovery will go more smoothly if you are not starved.”

 

“I don’t... ya haven’t done this,” the Amalgus said, his servos were curled into fists. Prowl stared at them. They were both uncomfortable about this. He could not even fuel an Amalgus without setting the mech into a panic attack.

 

“No,” he confirmed. “Do, whatever it is you need to do.”

 

Stepping cautiously around the counter, the slave approached the Praxian. Jazz reminded Prowl of a Turbofox, suspicious of a trap, but too starved to resist the bait. It was no trap, the Lord of Law was not that cruel a mech. He turned around on his stool, his back against the counter, and pulled up every last scrap of his formidable self control to keep himself from flinching or cowering. His spark was racing. Prowl had all but covered his audials to stop from hearing members of court talking about their use of the venom, it was not something he had ever wanted to hear. Now though, he felt wholly unprepared for what was to come. The venom was addictive, at least it seemed that way to him. Prowl thought of the decadent nobles, lounging around the tables, speaking in hushed whispers about their last invenomation. Would he become like them? Did it take just one bite to become addicted to Ex Aurae? Prowl set his jaw. Because there would be more than one bite, as long as the Amalgus was in his habsuite, it would be on the Lord of Law to give him what he required, which meant taking his bite as often as required. By the time the mech was gone, would Prowl have a single thread of intelligence left?

 

“Relax, Master,” Jazz spoke in a cross between a whisper and a croon as he stood in front of the seated Praxian.

 

“It is not something I am known for,” Prowl replied. He must have imagined the smile that had ghosted across the slave’s mouth. “What do I do?”

 

“Just gotta slide this away,” the Amalgus said, his servo brushed over the Lord of Law’s chassis, over his spark chamber. “‘N relax...”

 

Prowl felt like he had been scalded. Still, he obeyed the mech’s instruction and slid the armour aside, baring his tightly locked spark chamber. Jazz was not a sparkeater, it was not his spark the Amalgus needed. Forcing his shoulders down, and his spark to slow, he waited. Only medics had seen this much of him. He never humoured fantasies of sharing his spark with only one other, or saving his seals for his bonded. There would not be, could not be any such mech. The glitch he had emerged with had made bonding pointless, his procreators had never considered engaging a matchmaker for him, though they had tried and failed with his brother. Sideways had been of Barricade’s own choosing, he might have been worse a mech than any their procreators would have chosen. Given the humiliation his glitch had dealt the family designation, his procreators had encouraged him to do all that he could to restore their pride, that lecture was one of his earliest memories.

 

He had, he had made it his life’s mission for all his young vorns to give them something to be something they could take pride in. Barricade had cursed them for this, and him for abiding it, after Prowl had told him he had taken the appointment to Lord of Law. In the vorns that had followed, the Praxian’s priorities had changed, now his life’s mission was to mold Smokescreen into the emperor the citizen of their empire deserved. Not as if his procreators would have noticed, they lapped up ever honour given to him, without acknowledging his existence.vHe felt the slaves smooth cheek against the crystal dome over his spark chamber, and felt the mech’s hot ventilation against his innermost circuitry.

 

Stop. For a nanoklik the only thing Prowl could think of was escape, and he loosened his grip on the counter, an apology on his glossa. A servo cupped his chassis, before the Praxian could act on his fear, there was a sharp prick against a line off to the left of his spark chamber. Warmth suffused his frame. Stars burst across his optics, and Prowl locked his jaw to keep from panting... or moaning. He could not describe the sensation with any justice. His digits dug into the counter at his back, all thoughts of flight purged from his processor. Time slowed, it was measured by the firm suck and swallow of the starved mech as he drank Prowl’s vitae energon. It did not hurt, not even a little. Already the venom was invading the Praxian’s systems, and it was a struggle to keep for Prowl to keep his thoughts in any kind of order.

 

In an act of self-defence he raised his firewalls, a perhaps vain hope that he could keep his faculties, even as his frame melted, and his processor floated. The aches of his frame, of his processor were gone. He might have sighed. Focused on retaining his self-control Prowl did not feel the rising heat coiling in his chassis until his spark flared, and his processor went offline. There was no pain as he rebooted, just a nanoklik or so later, that had been no crash. So that was what Ex Aurae was... that explained so much. The Lord of Law took a measured intake, for some reason, he thought this would be the end. But even as he expelled that ventilation, Jazz took a long drink, and the Praxian’s spark flared again, his helm fell back as his processor went blank. If not for the counter, and the feverish frame covering him, he would not have stayed upright. He felt the Amalgus’ servos brushing against his as he still clung to the counter, he was effectively pinned. All Prowl could do was sit there as his spark flared over and over, as the mech drank every drop of vitae energon from his frame. When Jazz did finally step back, Prowl did not immediately move. He forced his optics online, not having consciously commanded them offline. Prowl forced himself to think, or he tried. His processor was so addled, he felt like he was swimming in tar, or floating in the Rust Sea. All he wanted was to recharge. With this single thought in his processor, the Praxian pushed off the counter, and promptly fell forward off the stool, and into Jazz’s arms. He tilted his helm, and looked at the mech, dazed.

 

“Master should laydown,” the slave said, lifting Prowl to his peds with unsettling ease. Prowl nodded, his thoughts still too slow to form a coherent sentence. His peds dragged.

 

Jazz more than half carried him to his berthroom, and deposited him on the berth. He did not stay. Prowl did not want him to stay? No, of course not. Yes. Primus, this was terrible. Mechanisms liked feeling like this? They paid fortunes to feel like this? So slow and so stupid? One nanoklik the Lord of Law was sitting where the Amalgus had left him, the next he was on his back, staring at the ceiling. Moving seemed like an extraordinary effort. His optic drifted offline. Prowl could not find the wherewithal to bring his optics back online, even as he heard the clink of a cube being left on his berthside table. Strong servos lifted him, and disoriented, the Praxian pressed his servos against the the chassis pressed against his, and his optics shot online. Quickly as they came online, Prowl felt the growing need to let them fall offline again. This was not his brother, it was not his brother tense gold coloured face, his ever anxious red optics looking down at him... No.

 

Jazz had beautiful optics.

 

“Master should recharge,” Jazz said as he lowered Prowl back onto the berth, and pulled the blanket over him.

 

“Do not call me that,” Prowl huffed, the thought fleeing his processor as quickly as it had come. His helm dropped back on his pillow, and his servos dropped to his berth. They said you should call a spade a spade, but if the Praxian had to hear himself called that for the rest of his mega-cycles, he might go mad.

 

“What should I call ya then?” The Amalgus asked.

 

“I am Prowl,” the Lord of Law said. “Or ‘You’. Not Master.”

 

“Ya are my master,” Jazz argued.

 

“I know,” Prowl replied, with regret. It was too much effort to keep his optics online.

 

“Recharge,” the slave said, and he did.

 

***

 

It was ambrosia. His master clung to the counter as Jazz drank, his vents flared and intakes coming in shallow soft gasps. Starved as the Amalgus was, he clung to the taller mech, and he drank long and deep. Under his cheek, Master Prowl’s spark pulsed quickly, enriching the vitae energon that Jazz drank, the plating under his servo warmed. He felt the vibrations of this mech’s pleasure, and for once it did not scare him. This mech’s vitae energon had adifferent flavour than he had known. He knew his master was a purus, Jazz did not need to see the seals, only the scent. Given the stories the Praxians had lapped up, and acted out in their sick interface games, it ought to have been reckless of Barricade to leave a hungry Analgus alone with his untouched brother. It ought to have been reckless to have gifted Prowl an Amalgus at all. Perhaps they thought the feral lust of Amalgii was not triggered by mechanisms so superior to their savage, interface-mad slaves. His kind were not interface obsessed, they did not stalk purii. They were not the monsters.

 

Though the venom of an Amaglus had a pleasant effect on Polihexians, the only frametype Jazz had fed from before he had been captured into slavery, Praxians got a far stronger rush, and Master Prowl was no exception. In fact he seemed to have a particularly potent reaction. Under Jazz’s bite, the Lord of Law overloaded, the tall mech’s engine stuttered as his intakes whined, he sagged. It was not enough and starved as Jazz was he sucked the line he had bitten, and drank greedily, keeping his master in a perpetual state of overload. Jazz dropped his servos to the counter, holding it on either side of the Praxian, and he drank more. Only when his desperate hunger was sated did Jazz pull back. A full bream has passed. With his helm finally clear, the Amalgus realized that he had drunk too long, and taken too much. His master looked at him, optics glassy, processor very clearly blown. Before Jazz could apologize or beg forgiveness, Master Prowl pushed off the counter, and tumbled forward. He did not even reach out servos to save himself. The slave caught his master, before any more harm could be done.

 

“Master should lay down,” Jazz said.

 

The mech nodded weakly, helm bobbing listlessly. Knowing Master Prowl would fall if he let go, Jazz dragged the bigger mech’s arm around his shoulder, and dragged him to the door of his berthroom. Though the slave had feared it would be locked, knowing his master’s orders, it opened smoothly as he brushed against it. Though he had been curious to know what the forbidden room looked like, the Amalgus had obeyed his master, fear was stronger in him than curiosity. Now that he was inside the berthroom, he could honestly say it was nothing like he had expected. The walls were white, like the rest of the habsuite, but unlike the livingroom, there was no fine art on the walls. These furnishings could only be described as simple, even plain. Both the tables next to the berth and the berth itself had been manufactured with simple functionality in processor. Constructed in metal the colour of matte steel, the lines of each piece were straight, simple. and without any adornment. Apart from the red berth cover the room was actually pretty bland. Jazz looked around, and frowned, funny how the rooms did not look like they should belong to the same mech.

 

His master stared at nothing as Jazz sat him down on the berth. He was buzzed, there was no question about that, lucky for him it did not come with a hangover, unlike engex. Most Praxians the Amalgus had encountered would have enjoyed having their frames so thoroughly sated, but Jazz could see the Lord of Law was fighting it. Apart from being completely blissed out, the mech had suffered no harm. Still, Master Prowl had never been fed from, and did not have the reserves to manage such a thorough feast. Jazz left his master sitting on the berth, and went to the kitchen. There were recipes for this, formulas written by Amalgii and Polihexian bartenders to speed up the frame’s restoration of vitae energon. Some of these recipes also encouraged the frame to produce more vitae energon than it otherwise would, to support both its own needs, and the Amaglus or Amalgii feeding from it.

 

Taking his master’s present state into consideration, and the fact that Jazz would need to feed on him for the foreseeable future, provided the mech did not turn tail and run, the Amalgus blended three parts mid-grade to one part coolant, and crushed a dozen different ores and minerals into the blend. The energon and coolant would replenish what was lost through successive overloads, it was the blend of ore and minerals that would triggers his master’s frame’s production of the vitae energon. Jazz kept the blend light, not wanting to engorge the Praxian’s frame with this precious energon, it was both a waste of resources, and it ran the risk of causing his master pain, and the slave would not risk that, it would scar Master Prowl for certain. In fact, Jazz might already have scared him off, drinking so much. His anxiety prickled back up again.

 

When he returned to his master’s berthroom, the mech was laying on his back, legs dangling off the berth. His vents were evenly spaced. Jazz shook his helm, and he set the cube down with more force than he had intended. It was enough to bring a dim glow back to the Praxian’s optics, but it was not enough to bring him all the way out of recharge. He could have left him like this, its not as though it would hurt Master Prowl, to recharge this way, but something in Jazz’s spark would not let him walk away, and so he pulled the strutless mech up against his chassis. Master Prowl’s servos shot up, and pushed against his scant bumper. The Lord of Law stared at him, dazed and confused. Jazz stared back at him, his spark was racing in terror.

 

“Master should recharge,” he said, brittlely. Fight or flight protocols screamed at him to run. He pulled back the blanket and lowered his master to the berth. Servos shaking, he covered the addled mech with the blanket.

 

“Do not call me that,” Master Prowl said, in a husky voice, his optics flickered as the mech tried to stay online.

 

“What should I call ya then?” Jazz asked.

 

“I am Prowl,” his master replied, he was losing the fight against recharge, thank Primus. “Or ‘You’. Not Master.”

 

“Ya are my master,” Jazz argued. How could he just call the mech “Prowl”? The notion of calling this mech by his given designation sparked unexpected anger in the slave. They were not equals, how could Master Prowl think he would pretend?

 

“I know,” Prowl replied, the regret tangible. His optics went black and his ventilations evened out.

 

“Recharge,” the Amalgus said, and he crept from the room.

 

What did he call the mech, if not Master? Jazz would not call him Prowl, it bred familiarity he could not fathom having with a Praxian. Hey you was disrespectful, and he was certain his master would get annoyed if he heard it too often. What had Hoist called him? Baron... he was Baron Prowl, that would do. The harmonics mattered more than anything, the Amalgus would use the same he had always used, the glyph would make no difference. With the Lord of Law’s vitae energon already being processed by his secondary fuel tank, Jazz slipped back into the berthroom that held the Twins. Even in the dark, he could make out the colour and texture of the blanket, and the pillows. These were not just any pillows, or any blanket, or pad cover. They were identical to those covering the Praxian’s own berth... their master had given them his own blanket to sleep under, his own pillows to replace the ancient ones he had discarded. Struck a little dumb by this observation, unable to process it as all the stress of the mega-cycle piled up, Jazz felt suddenly so exhausted. He pulled back the blanket and crawled beneath it. His bitlets did not stir as he cuddled them to him. The last thought that crossed Jazz’s processor as he fell into recharge was that the pillow smelled like their master.

 

Jazz woke slowly. Even after he lit up his optics, the slave made no move to rise, he was still very tired. The nanites Hoist had injected him with were working, his was a little overheated, but nothing like the Amalgus realized he had been before. There was non of that desperate hunger either. He tasted Master Prowl’s vitae energon on his glossa, and he slowly licked his lips. They had starved him so long it had been like drinking rarefied energon. Every mechanism’s vitae energon had a distinct flavour, the spark of the mechanism giving the fuel a different tang. It had to have been starvation that had made his master’s energon taste so good. Master Prowl’s was the best he could recall ever tasting in his memory, but Jazz was sure it was just a quirk of his processor. That first vitae energon he had after he was free, that would be the best energon ever.

 

“Up,” Sideswipe ordered. It was a testament to how weak his systems remained that the mechling had recharged this long. He pulled on his progenitor’s servo. “Up now.”

 

“Okay, my Sassy Sides,” Jazz replied, and he sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall down to his hip. Face buried in his pillow, Sunstreaker made his displeasure known, his servo reached for the blanket. “Come on Sweet Sunshine, time to get up and play.”

 

“Feh,” the mechling groused. Sideswipe wriggled off the berth, abandoning progenitor and brother, and toddled over to the box of blocks. Smiling fondly at both his creations, Jazz stroked his servo down Sunstreaker’s curled frame. He was still warm to the touch, but no longer terrifyingly so.

 

“Maybe a cuddle ‘n a story before I make yer breakfast?” the progenitor offered. His first emerged harrumphed but he did not resist being taken in his progenitor’s arms, and cuddled close.

 

Sunstreaker giggled as Jazz tickled him as he told him a favourite nursery rhyme. By the end, he was fully on line, and ready the join his brother with the blocks. Jazz watched them for a while, sitting on the berth and basking in the euphoria that came from knowing that they would live. If this master did decide to frag him in the end, Jazz would give himself over, not with gladness, but he would spread his legs, without cuffs or chains to make him compliant. By saving the Twins, Master Prowl had gained the Amalgus’ undying loyalty, and obedience. There was some resentment there, he was not inclined to feel so positively disposed to a Praxian, but the Twins were alive, they would be strong and healthy in quartexes, not the dull plated little waifs that they were, that was more hope to hold on to than he had known before.

 

All their systems were bogged down by the Pirexis their anti-viral and self-repair systems were fighting. Heavy fuel still seemed unwise, and so Jazz mixed pellets of energon into oil, and brought the bowls into the berthroom. It was not quite the same as the breakfast fuel sold in Polihex, but it was fine. Jazz was not so prejudiced to all things Praxus that he would snub their fuel. The Twins scampered over, and downed their energon quickly. Their hunger assuaged, they returned to their game, like the whirlwinds they were. They were already doing so much better. Jazz did not linger on his fuel, but he did not inhale it like his bitlets. After drinking the oil that was left in his bowl, he gathered the dishes, and stepped out of the slave quarters. Master Prowl, turn quickly to face him. He nodded, the gesture so quick, Jazz might have missed it, and he turned for his own rooms.

 

“Only pressed energon?” He asked as he saw the cube his master was holding.

 

“Yes,” the answer was not spoken with anger, or temper. Master Prowl’s doorwings dipped a little, just a fraction. Jazz had seen it before, although the bartender’s posture had been considerably more dramatic. The mech was feeling chastised.

 

“If ya sit, I’ll make ya something,” Jazz offered. He had more than half expected the Praxian to decline, but walked around the counter, and he sat, almost tentatively.

 

“You left me fuel,” Master Prowl said, it sounded like a weak defence.

 

“When’d ya drink it?” The slave asked. Did the mech think you could live on that slag alone?

 

“Early,” the Praxian confessed. “I was commed at 06:00 joors with a problem.”

 

“Ya due for more than,” Jazz said. “‘N an early recharge.”

 

His Master did not respond to that, Jazz of course had no authority over this mech. If he was not careful though, the slave would put a bug in Hoist’s audials, see what the stubborn fragger thought of that. The Amalgus watched the quiet mech, as he prepared the same fuel blend he had mixed the dark-cycle before. Even if the Hall, or whomever it was that had commed Master Prowl could not have known just how late he had been up, they should have known that he did not make it for home until after 00:00 joors. Assuming he had gone to recharge immediately after getting home, it still did not really leave for enough time to get a proper dark-cycle’s recharge, or a proper meal. Given how late he had actually been up, and the strain his systems had taken by Jazz feeding so long, his master should have been dead on his peds already, but instead his optics were bright and clear, and his faceplates completely smooth. Jazz was forced to reconsider his estimation of the mechs age, Master Prowl might have even been younger than him.

 

Jazz smiled to himself as he turned to add the minerals to his mix. He had been thinking that this Praxian might just wear a perpetual scowl, but seeing him now, his faceplates smoothed, the slave knew it had been the helmache that had caused Master Prowl’s drawn expression. How it was Ex Aurae would help that, Jazz could think of only one thing, and it had him wanting to shake his helm. They could have just prescribed a few overloads, the effect would have been the same. His master was overworked, and over extended, it was no surprise that he would have stress helmaches. Those overloads he had experienced with the Ex Aurae had reset his systems, a normal overload would have done the same.The Amalgus had not forgotten what he had heard Hoist say when he had listened to Medic’s and Master’s conversation. There was something wrong, something in the Lord of Law’s processor that made him think his mega-cycles were numbered. Hoist had not sounded so convinced. But rather, he had insisted a reasonable amount of recharge and fuel was all Master Prowl needed. Too bad the mech was too stupid and too stubborn to be sensible.

 

“You will have to tell me when you need to feed,” Master Prowl said as Jazz set the cube down in front of him.

 

“What about ya helmaches?” Jazz asked, his master’s expression tightened, and his optics went a shade colder. It seemed he did not like being reminded that the venom had had the other medics desired effect. To be fair, it was a little maddening to the Amalgus as well. These quacks did not need the encouragement.

 

“Forget about that,” the Praxian said. The command had no heat, and rather than frighten him, it just raised Jazz’s gall instead. “When you need to fuel, tell me. I will not remember.”

 

“Ya didn’t like it,” the slave stated the obvious.

 

“I prefer to keep my helm,” Master Prowl replied. “Regardless, you require vitae energon, so you may feed from me when you require it.”

 

“If I feed more often, it won’t be so bad,” Jazz offered. If he watched for that pinched expression, maybe he could “medicate” the dumbaft’s helmaches, and fuel his frame, all at the same time. Symbiosis. “Once an orn, or every couple of orns?”

 

“Whichever,” the Lord of Law replied. It took considerable resolve for the Amalgus to keep the smug smile from his lipplates. His master held up the cube, and looked to Jazz, straight on. “I appreciate the consideration but all this effort for me is not necessary.”

 

“It ain’t any effort to make a little more,” the Amalgus countered, argued he thought a little hysterically, with his master, even looking him dead on. He should have been cowering behind the counter, waiting for a deserved beating, but the slave stood straight instead.

 

“So long as you understand your priorities are those mechlings, and not me,” Master Prowl said.

 

“I understand,” Jazz replied, still standing straight, still watching his master with his chin raised. “It really ain’t any extra work.”

 

“I have work to attend to,” the Praxian said as he rose. Was this how he got away from conversation that were not going his way? “Even if your plating is not itching from rust rash, all three of you would likely benefit from an oil bath.”

 

“Yes, Baron,” Jazz said, he did not know why he felt the need to challenge the mech, or why he was stupid enough to surrender to the impulse. The Amalgus was observant, he did not mis the way his master’s doorwings dip back, even though it could only been a shift of a matter of centimetres. “Thank ya for your concern.”

 

Master Prowl nodded, collected his pressed energon, and made a swift retreat. How were they going to manage an orn of this? Jazz liked the knowledge that he could looked this mech in the optics. It gave him a feeling he had not felt for so long, and he clung to it. His master might not have been as disconcerted as Jazz was by their set up, but he had the inkling the Praxian was feeling somehow even more out of order. With the way his helmache had appeared to clear up after the slave had fed from him, Jazz might have thought Master Prowl would have come around to Ex Aurae, but he might even have been more skiddish as they had spoken. Jazz had not met a Praxian yet who found the effects of the venom unpleasant, this mech was an unknown commodity. It did not make the Amalgus feel more secure, not the contrary was far closer to the truth. He did not want to feel like he was forcing himself on he mech. Memories of Free Wheeler and others in the brothel flashed before his optics and he ran to the washracks to purge.

 

He purged until his main fuel tank was empty, and several kliks after. Jazz could not do it. If his master recoiled, if he feared it, the Amalgus did not think he could process the fuel. He had feared it the dark-cycle before, but Jazz had been to hungry to resist his frame’s demands, and he had bitten his master, before he could change his processor. Maybe small bites would be better, the slave hoped, and even prayed. When he trusted he could stand, Jazz pushed himself to his peds, and went to rinse the taste of half digested energon from his mouth. Weary to his struts, the slave looked himself in the mirror. It was his face, this frame was his root frame, the one that he had emerged him, but it did not feel like his own. When he had been free, he had always worn a visor to protect his sensitive optics from the bright sun of the Polihexian desert. It had been ripped from his face when they had captured him. They had wanted to see his optics when they had raped him that first time. Since then the Amalgus had been forced to suffer the too bright light of the surface cities that made up the empire. His master was not the only mech who suffered helmaches.

 

Jazz did not know if his plating was truly prickly, or it was psychosomatic, but he stepped from these small washracks, and gathered the Twins with one single thought on his processor. As Hoist has promised, their fevers had dropped, they were mostly back to their normal selves. Still, sickness had made them clingy and both mechlings welded themselves against his chassis as soon as he opened his arms to them, chittering in excited binary. They had never had an oil bath, and he had not been able to enjoy one in vorns. Though he caste a nervous glance at his master’s office door, there was no signal or sign that the mechlings’ little sounds disturbed him. Would the mech even say if they had? Probably not, and again this realization gave made the progenitor anxious. Once again, Jazz made himself swallow it. This mech had not laid a servo on them in anything less than concern, a little noise was not going to cause a tantum. Or so Jazz prayed.

 

“This is a treat, bitties,” he said, as he filled the tub with oil. Jazz tried to forget his anxiety, with limited success. “We’re gonna have a nice oil bath.”

 

“Baf,” Sideswipe made a disgusted face.

 

“This is different my little love,” the progenitor cooed.

 

Though his twin loathed the very glyph, Sunstreaker stood against the rim of the bath, and watched as the oil filled it. Where his brother liked to wear all the marks and mess of his adventures like badges of honour, Sunstreaker loved to be squeaky clean, it was never a fight to get him in a bath. Jazz held Sideswipe on his knee as he tested the temperature of the oil. He took his mechling’s servo, and dragged it back and forth through the oil, crooning at him as he did. Sunstreaker stood of his ped tips, and ran bother servos through the warm, opalescent oil, smiling from audial to audial. Sideswipe looked at his servos and hummed. Deciding the bath was the perfect temperature, Jazz set this troublemaker down, and climbed in. Sitting in the space, molded for a larger mech, he lifted first Sunstreaker and then Sideswipe in, and held them both on his lap. A blissful little sigh escaped his quiet creation, the progenitor echoed the sentiment.

 

“Nice, ain’t it?” Jazz asked.

 

Sunstreaker nodded and tucked himself up so only his helm was above the surface of the oil. There were control along the edge of the bath. Considering the wealth of this master, it must have had a few features. Jazz pressed a button, and the oil began to bubble lightly as the jets opened. He found controls for the speed, and force, but elected to leave the settings alone. Oil flowed against his back, and layers of aches began to melt away. Startled, his first emerged sat up straight for a nanoklik, but as his progenitor drew him closer to one of the jets, Sunstreaker sagged, he looked utterly content. For his part, Sideswipe played with the bubbles the jets produced, bouncing on Jazz’s legs. They soaked for a joor, even the mischievous bitlet eventually took a moment to relax against a get. This was the most relaxed Jazz had been in eons, and there was nothing stopping him from soaking, just about whenever he liked. Their master was rarely around to need the washracks.

 

Before the Twins could tire of it too much, Jazz drained the bath, and took them over to the shower to rinse. It was a nice shower, nicer than the one assigned to him, but of course the master’s washracks would be superior to those meant for a servant or slave. He pulled the shower head from its mount and ran it over the mechlings. Sideswipe laughed and clapped, and played in the spray. Jazz laughed wit him. Sunstreaker watched his brother for a moment, and then joined the game with a little whoop. Their progenitor tickled them with the shower, teasing their peds. They laughed, a sound to precious, not to encourage. They batted at the spray, trying to send it against their progenitor, and Jazz’s spark swelled with love. All games had to end eventually, of course, and Jazz returned the shower helm to its perch. As he turned around in the shower to rinse any remaining oil from his own frame, he paused. There was a thin paint transfer, going almost half the way down the shower. When he brushed a servo against it, the transfer smudge easily, suggesting it was fresh. White The slave frowned, it was white like their master’s paint. Jazz tapped his digits against the tile, that would explain the thump he had heard the previous dark-cycle. He shook his helm. That dumbaft must have fainted from exhaustion. What Master Prowl really needed was a fragging nursemech, but then Jazz supposed that was what he had been purchased for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the last update in a bit. I'm not going to keep this up, we all know it XD. But I don't feel like sitting on an update.

Hearing himself addressed by that title should not have been so discomfiting. Prowl was a Baron, though it was just a courtesy title he had been given by the emperor on his deathberth. Ego had already chosen Gauntlet and Halogen to be two of his creations Voces Tres. By an ancient rule of law, the dying emperor had been required to choose three voices, Voices Three, to be regents for his minor creation. For reasons Prowl would never know, but was grateful for, Emperor Ego had chosen him to be the third voice. Given the others had been Dukes, Ego had decreed Prowl would be a baron. It still put him at a disadvantage when facing the council, made up of all dukes or marquises, but he was also Lord of Law, and that elevated his standings enough to balance the scales for the most part. Still, no one actually ever spoke that title with any kind of respect, except for Hoist. Jazz spoke is the same way he had Master, and it felt something closer to a curse than an honorific.

 

He heard the Amalgii enter the washracks, and the bell like giggle of the sparklings. It was not an unwelcome sound. Prowl turned to his screens. As Lord of Law he had duties to both oversee the administration of Praxus’ penal code, as well as personally launching prosecutions in special cases. It was the latter duty that gave him the most trouble, the most often. The elite preferred to buy their way out of trouble, and Prowl preferred to hold them to the Glyph of Law. Neither side won more often. Prowl ran into resistance raising these prosecutions, often from with the council who might call the accused brother, creation or friend. As much as he would have liked not to, the Lord of Law had to play politics if he wanted to have his say and his way in the more important matters. Gauntlet and Halogen were not particularly well liked by the council, when Prowl needed to push one of his edicts or bills, he needed this circle of mechanisms on his side, and sometimes that meant making deals with devils.

 

Prowl had made one such deal ten stellar-cycles earlier and now that arrogant devil was back, having killed another mechanism with his reckless driving, and this time the Lord of Law refused to make a deal. The mech would see judgment, and if Prowl got the conviction he believed that he would, Tracer would spent no less than a million stellar-cycle in spark containment. Though Tracer did not count a councilmech as kin, he was the creation of wealthy mechanisms, as Prowl was, and they had some of these councilmechs in their subspace pockets. When they had been unable to pressure the monochrome Praxian into signing a deal, they had taken a different path. The rich slagtards had sent him a bribe. Just thinking about it enraged Prowl, he could _not_ be bought. These mechanisms were going to learn that lesson, and it would costly. Bribery charges had not been the response these so called “respectable” businessmechs had expected. Since filing the charges Prowl’s inbox had been overflowing with outrage from councilmechs, dealings from lawyers, and threats from anonymous accounts. Outrage did not particularly trouble him, it was just hot air from autocrats, and neither did the high priced lawyers and their deals, they were par for the course. Threats, on the other servo, were of concern, even if he did not put any stalk in them. They did not scare him, Prowl would not be cowed. But the threats could not go ignored, and he had sent his best investigators on the trail, along with the Enforcers. He would have preferred to investigate on his own, but the Lord of Law had too many other matters to attend to.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Smokescreen asked as he set down his crystal cube. This had become their custom, they video conferenced during the mechling’s fuel breaks. Gauntlet and Halogen knew nothing about this, it had been their secret for vorns.

 

“I am well,” Prowl said, his tank clenched. He was feeling better. It was ridiculous, perhaps, but he wished that he did not. “How were your lessons with Flash?”

 

“I have learned to sit very pretty,” the youngling snorted, and he gave Prowl a demonstration. “I don’t know why I still have to have etiquette lessons.”

 

“You swore at Lord Camshaft just last orn,” the Lord of Law noted.

 

“He was asking for it,” Smokescreen replied. The mechling had not inherited his progenitor’s cruelty, but he still had a temper. In his defence, the Optics of Praxus had been asking for a dressing down for many cycles. He still spoke to the emperor as if he were a naive sparkling.

 

“You would do better to find other language with which to make your point,” Prowl said. “So that that no one can accuse you of having a tantrum.”

 

“They would know tantrums,” the emperor snorted, he was not wrong. “You’re working from home _all_ week?”

 

“As a precaution,” the elder Praxian explained, having rehearsed the lie, his spark fluttered at the disappointed he heard in the youngling’s voice. “There have been threats against my office reported, and I have long overdue maintenance to tend to in my habsuite.”

 

“As long as you’re okay,” Smokescreen said.

 

“I am in excellent health,” Prowl reassured him.

 

“You do look better,” the youngling observed. “I’ll tell Bluestreak you’re okay. He was worried”

 

“Tell Kup and Ironhide I am available to speak to him if he needs anything,” the Lord of Law replied, they both worried. It was sweet of them.

 

They were closer than they were meant to be, Prowl was not fool enough not to recognize this. It had been his goal, had it not? The Regents would be suspicious, and the council alarmed where they to learn of these clandestine conversations. Even if he was still a youngling, Smokescreen was the emperor and his relationships with his Regents and council were supposed to follow strict courtly etiquette, and his and Smokescreen’s did not. Bluestreak, so much younger and guileless than his brother leapt on Prowl whenever he came around to visit, but Smokescreen knew that he had to be more careful. It was rare that he sought out a hug, only when they were entirely alone, without even Kup and Ironhide, his and Bluestreak’s guards and nursemechs, present. His younger brother would never be emperor, not even if Smokescreen were to die the next mega-cycle. Emperor Ego had left an order of succession, the newspark in his Consort’s forge had not made the list, to no ones surprise. Prowl did not know who had actually kindled the Templar’s mechling, he had taken that secret with him to the Well.

 

Everyone knew, and had known, how abyssal the stoic Praxian was with sparklings and it had been a running joke in the palace to leave Bluestreak in his care whenever his nursemechs had something more important to attend to than a sickly, scandalous newling. Orphaned and overwhelmed, Smokescreen had taken shelter with his half brother as often as he could. No one had been concerned about preparing the mechling for his position, or comforting him in his grief. They had not seen fit to spent the time teaching the mechling to be emperor but they had demanded he act like one, which meant no tears. As a result, Prowl had often struggled to perform his duties as Lord of Law with Bluestreak and Smokescreen both crying into his plating. Thankfully, the younger mechling was no longer sickly, and his elder brother had learned to live with grief. Both mechlings still sought Prowl out whenever they were troubled. Sometimes they wanted to talk about what was troubling their sparks, often they just wanted to sit with him in silence. Prowl may not have been skilled at sparklifting peptalks, he could manage silent support, and he had managed, they had managed well together.

 

A new message popped into his inbox, his innumerable purchases would be delivered the next light-cycle. The total cost was... a larger sum than he had originally planned, but Prowl could afford the splurge. It was not going to be a regular event in any case. As Regent he received a handy sum each stellar-cycle from the empire’s coffers, it was an obscene amount really. The sum was the same for all three Regents, a sum the other two had chosen, and were thus forced to pay Prowl as well. He could have done with out, but he took it. To assuage his conscience the Lord of Law donated to the Free Clinic on a regular basis, as well as to other charities and causes that served the Praxians well. Prowl only claimed his regular earnings as Lord of Law for himself, and he invested those well. If the Prowl had thoughts of retiring young, or at all, of purchasing a manor in the country, Prowl might have been more concerned about stretching his shanix, or hoarding his portion, but he would not live long enough to think of retirement.

 

On the remote chance the Praxian did live long enough to be called old, he knew in his spark he would not, he was only one mech, and this habsuite was already more than he needed. At least, it was more than he _had_ needed, now with three new suitemates, it was almost too small. Prowl had no outdoor space for the mechlings to run in. Space was a premium in the capital, apart from a few grand estates, there were no private gardens. They likely did not know to miss it. More likely than not they had only been under the open sky in their procreator’s arms when they were being carried from one transport or another. Amalgii slaves were rarely seen on the streets, mechlings or grown. On those rare occasions when they were they were largely restrained on leashes, with bits in their mouths. They were dangerous after all. Prowl ran his servos down his face. He was tired.

 

Comming Barricade to come over gave the Lord of Law an excuse to leave the current argument he was stalled on. He had written two dozen already, but as a single voice speaking out against a popular enterprise, Prowl may as well have been screaming into the void. Stepping from behind his desk was not an admission of defeat, they had not and would not defeat him. These mechs were mere schemers, the Lord of Law was so much more. Though a craving for pressed energon had been his greatest motivation to leave his office, Prowl found a covered plate waiting for him. It seemed Jazz really was determined to keep him fuelled. What fuelled the impulse the Praxian felt to sit at the counter, he did not know but even once his energon had brewed, Prowl stayed. He lifted the cover from the plate the Amalgus had left. It was not poison. That was the only thing Prowl was sure of. Not precisely suspicious, he dragged a spoon through the... sludge... would be a rude descriptor, but whatever this was, it was not a stew, or a soup, at least not how he understood either dish. The Praxian took a spoonful, and tried to decipher what ingredients had gone into this dish. Shaved crystals filled the bottom of the bowl, with a black slurry of oil and ore on top. Prowl reminded himself that it was not poison, and put the spoon in his mouth. Frowning, he slowly chewed, and swallowed. It was not poison.

 

“Never met a mech who took his fuel so seriously,” Jazz said, and Prowl jerked up, doorwings flared back.

 

“I did not realize you were there,” he replied... and watching him fuel.

 

“I was thinkin’ what I could try if ya didn’t come out, Sir,” the Amalgus explained.

 

“You do not need to concern yourself with fuelling me,” Prowl said, not for the first time. He saw the slave shrug. Sir. That might have been better than baron.

 

“Ain’t nothin’ to be fed on,” Jazz replied. “I shoulda waited, let ya fuel up a bit... Ya went under bit more than I seen before.”

 

“No harm was done,” the Praxian said. How gratifying to know he had a stronger reaction to Ex Aurae that this mech had witnessed. Primus he would be an expert on Praxians and that venom. Prowl lost his appetite the very nanoklik that thought passed through his helm.

 

Jazz did not take his optics off him. When Prowl pushed the bowl away, the Amalgus’ stare intensified. Was he waiting for Prowl to finish his fuel? Was he going to stand there until he did? The Lord of Law felt no lingering affects from the venom. The fugue he had onlined under had faded after three cubes of pressed energon. That cube the slave had left him had been an after though, but the amethyst energon had given him a longer burst of energy. Prowl was far from suffering fuel deprivation, If Jazz was concerned about his habits now, he would be displeased to learn most of the fuel the Praxian consumed during light-cycles in the Hall was pressed energon and rust sticks. In fact he had a stash of those energon goodies in the desks in both his home and Hall offices. Hoist and Barricade and Jazz should be content enough that he remembered they were there even half of the time. He knew when he needed to fuel, Prowl felt fuel deprivation eventually. Though he wanted to push the bowl completely aside, to be petulant and defiant, but guilt was a powerful motivator, and Prowl drew the bowl closer, and took another spoonful. It settled, his tank made no attempts to purge, and spoonful by spoonful the Lord of Law ate the entire bowl. His tank was full, not overfull but full, it was a strange enough feeling given his habits.

 

“Barricade will be coming over in a joor,” Prowl revealed as he placed his drained cube into the empty bowl. “You are not required to remain in your quarters, but you may if that is your preference.”

 

“It is,” Jazz replied, as he had expected.

 

“I can clean up after myself,” the Lord of Law said, sliding off his stool. “You have done enough. Please rest.”

 

“Yes, Baron,” the Amalgus replied.

 

Prowl watched him go, reassured by the mech’s even stride, but sick to see the crisscross of scars plainly visible on the mech’s back. Medic Hoist would have his helm if Jazz’s illness took a bad turn because the Amalgus insisted on caring for him. He hoped that the medic might have some therapy that would help the scars, it looked as if some had gone straight to his struts. Though Jazz did not move or act as though he was in any pain, that did not mean he was not hiding something. There were mechanisms that would have been titillated by that knowledge, they would have used it to better control the slave. There was no doubt in Prowl’s processor that this mech had defiance written in his code, and that this was how his protoform had come to be a patchwork of scars. His procreator coding might overrule it now, but before? It was one explanation as to what had possessed his last master to breed him. With the space the Praxian had already given him, it looked to be seeping back up. Did it anger Prowl? No. Did he want this mech to be quiet and passive. Primus, no. Might he be able to reason with Jazz if it became overbearing... maybe. Although given Prowl’s track record with his brother, this was not a promising prospect.

 

Barricade’s familiar knocked alerted Prowl to his brother’s arrival just after he had finished brewing two cubes of the thick, dark pressed energon they both favoured. It was terrible energon, flavour wise. The taste and sensation was something akin to swallowing a star. To say it was an acquired taste was quite the understatement. You did not drink this energon for its taste, however but for the quick surge of fuel it gave. This was Precinct energon, both he and his brother had developed a taste for it during their service. Though Prowl had been gone from the Enforcers for vorns by this point, he kept a compact press in his office in the HAll, with the same crystals the precincts stocked, and brewed himself a cube whenever his energy flagged. The staff room in the Hall had a far nicer press, but while the energon it brewed was more palatable it had no kick, Prowl needed the quick.

 

“Good cycle, Barricade,” he said as he greeted his brother.

 

“Good cycle, Prowl,” Barricade replied. Prowl knew he was being inspected, Barricade was not circumspect about it. He could have been, his elder brother was a perfectly capable investigator, but he never tried to hide his concerns over Prowl’s health. “Everything alright? I’m going to take a long shot and guess you didn’t just want the benefit of my glowing personality.”

 

“I need help moving some furniture,” Prowl explained, he gesture towards the rug. “I am disposing of that.”

 

“You know you can hire mechanisms for that,” the Vigilum Secondus said. He took the cube Prowl offered him. But even as he reached for it, Barricade reached his other servo out, and ran it over the scuff on his little brother’s shoulder. “Prowl?”

 

“I am fine,” the monochrome Praxian replied. His brother snorted.

 

“You always say you’re fine,” Barricade said, his voice unexpectedly rough.

 

“I am,” Prowl promised. This was a familiar dance to both of them. “Fuel with me, stop worrying.”

 

It had been a mistake not to touch up his paint, but Prowl had not thought about it. His paint and finish were very rarely on his radar, and it was generally Barricade or Smokescreen who reminded him to see a detailer. He wanted to sigh. His brother, though so many vorns older, who had known from the very mega-cycle that Prowl had emerged that his bitlet brother would not live to grow old with him, fought it at every turn. Barricade believed in miracles, Prowl did not. Ex Aurae was touted by many as a cure against death, and it was this fantastic claim the Lord of Law believed had triggered his brother’s purchase of those Amalgii. The venom had not saved Ego, and would not save mechanisms from Rust Plague or any of the other ills that afflicted Cybertronians. Prowl wanted to laugh, a cruel bitter laugh, it an aphrodisiac, nothing more. Overloads did not bring miracles.

 

“Who did that, by the way?” The gold-faced Praxian asked, and Prowl followed his optics to the stain.”

 

“One of the mechlings,” the younger brother explained, it was a safer subject than his own health. But even as he said the glyphs, Prowl felt a sudden need to defend the bitlet. “It was an accident.”

 

“Of course,” Barricade said, with a shake of his helm. “They’re too young to mean anything. So why comm me? I’m not a housekeeper.”

 

“You are ultimately responsible for the state of the rug,” Prowl replied. There was a subharmonic to his brother’s question, he wanted to know why Prowl had not put the slave to work. Prowl elected not to answer. He had spent the last joor moving the tables and the holo-imager against the far wall. Jazz had peaked his helm out a few times, offering his help, but the Praxian had insisted he rest, Prowl did not want to face Hoist’s ire if the mech got hurt.

 

“And how do you figure that?” The elder brother asked.

 

“You brought them into my habsuite,” the Lord of Law declared, cold blue optics meeting hot red ones. Barricade had their progenitor’s face, but Prowl had his optics. “Everything that came and comes after is on _your_ helm. You, therefore, will help me move the furniture so I can dispose of the carpet.”

 

“And again, there are mechanisms you can hire for this,” Barricade grumbled.

 

“I do not like strangers in my habsuite,” Prowl replied. “You know that very well. You have brought _three_ into my _space,_ the very least you can do is help me moving a pair of couches.”

 

“Whatever,” the Vigilum Secondus sighed, admitting defeat. It please his younger brother more than it should have to win for once. They finished their fuel, each in one gulp, and went to work. Barricade grabbed one end of the longer lounge, and Prowl the other. They lifted the offending piece of furniture, or at least they tried. “Fragging heavy. This slag belong in a museum.”

 

“Language,” the monochrome brother warned.

 

“They aren’t even here,” Barricade argued.

 

“They have Polihexian audials,” Prowl replied. “There is no telling how well they hear.”

 

“Fine,” his brother grumbled. They counted down from three, and lifted again. “What the f... Grr... What are these things made of? Are the cushions metal too?”

 

“Probably,” the Lord of Law replied. “They are not meant for sitting for any length of time. Their are from the Agonies Movement after all.”

 

“Only our progenitor would buy this slag,” Barricade said. With a great deal of complaint on the darker brother’s part, they moved the couch off the rug. “Not for himself of course, he likes his comforts. The question is, why do you _still_ have this tacky scrap?”

 

“Why change it?” Prowl asked. “It is not as though I use the space.”

 

“You could, you should,” Barricade argued. “You just don’t want to deal with _them._ Come on, when was the last time they were here? You wouldn’t invite them over even if they did deign to leave their private kingdom. If they ever turned up you’d pack your schedule so tight they couldn’t even demand an audience.”

 

“All true,” the younger brother confirmed.

 

“I’m not moving this slag back, you’re going to order a new fragging couch, and decorate your own fragging habsuite,”the elder brother declared. “Get a new rug, something not white.”

 

“Language,” the monochrome Praxian repeated. “You speak as if I don’t like white. Have you looked at me?”

 

“I’ve seen your berthroom,” Barricade argued. “The one room you decorated isn’t white, isn’t? Except for the walls. Boring white walls without scrap on them. Who in the Pit decided gold was your colour?”

 

“Progenitor,” Prowl replied, giving his brother a warning look. Scrap and Pit were still curses, and Barricade knew it. “Originator would have preferred pure white... It makes a statement, or so he has told me. Repeatedly. I think my greatest betrayal to his image was adding black accents. No, adding the red chevron, that was my greatest betrayal.”

 

“Black couch, or red,” the Vigilum Secondus said as they final got the second couch moved. How it could be heavier than the longer one, neither could figure out. By the time they had pushed it out of the way, the floor was gauged and both mechs were cursing under their ventilations. Barricade looked over to the near invisible door along the wall, vents flared with exurtion. “I haven’t heard a peep from them.”

 

“They are resting,” the young brother said. “There was an outbreak of Pirexis. To complicate matters, the forge was contaminated with some rust plague. He in particular had a severe infection. They were gravely ill.”

 

“Frag,” Barricade curse, and paused. “Called the Free Clinic, right?”

 

“I certainly could not have called Conduit,” Prowl replied, thinking of the medic who had prescribed him Ex Aurae. “He would have been indignant. He is also a quack.”

 

“It worked though, didn’t it?” His brother asked. Prowl froze, he did not look at Barricade.

 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I would rather have helm aches.”

 

“Tell me those Amalgii aren’t better off with you,” Barricade said.

 

“That is not the point,” the Lord of Law argued, and with a show of emotion he rarely shared with another, he threw his arms up. “I am trying to eliminate the trade in Amalgii, how does it look to my opponents and potential supports that I own _three_? I am a _hypocrite_.”

 

“I bought them,” the Vigilum Secondus countered. “That’s on record. You saw the state of them and intervened. Got them medical treatment. You can’t in good conscience send them back into those conditions. You sicced the Temple on the fraggers?”

 

“Of course!” Prowl said. “Hoist lodged the official the complaint. As a medic he is mandated by law to report any outbreaks, and the Temple of Primus is bound to investigate. He volunteered to attend the Auction with the temple medics. He tells me there were several more cases of rust rash and Pirexis. They are imposing a quarantine on the Auction. There will be no sales until investigation is complete and the outbreak is under control. The High Priest was unimpressed.”

 

“Sounds like something you can work with,” Barricade replied. “Show it all to the Emperor, show _them_ to the emperor. You have evidence of abuse all over that mech’s frame. You have Hoist’s exam and diagnosis, the High Priest of Primus! Lord Gauntlet’s going to sneer but he does anyway, I don’t think he has another expression. I’ve never heard of him using Ex Aurae but I figure his got some investments in the Auction, at I hear his bastard is in the deep, partnered in one of the brothels, at least until he was until he lost his credits. Halogen’s too preoccupied keeping the caste system and the status quo, but those afts aren’t your targets. Lord Camshaft, Lord Backburner, Praetus Maximo. I know the Praetus banned the use of Ex Aurae in the army. Considering what happened to his predecessor.”

 

“You just want me to forgive you,” the younger brother sighed with resignation. Any that knew him, would paint Barricade as a reckless, hot helm. Many said he could only have the rank of Vigilum Secondus if he had purchased it, or if Prowl had purchased it for him. He was certainly reckless and hot helmed, but Prowl had not purchased the rank for him, and Barricade did not have the credits to buy a promotion unless he was willing to beg their procreators, something he would never do. No, Barricade had earned it. The mech was smarter than he was ever given credit. It was just easy to be labelled an idiot with a sibling like Prowl.

 

“I was looking for an older mech, one that might not have a lot of time left in the wrong servos,” his brother said, and Prowl’s doorwings drooped. “I saw a familiar face bidding on those three. You’d remember him. Slagtard was molesting his nephew, but the family wouldn’t file a complaint. You tried anyways, but the Justices wouldn’t hear the case when the bitlets own procreators denied everything. Fragger’s still walking the streets, we never even got to put cuffs on him. He wasn’t touching these mechlings.”

 

“You could have just told me that,” Prowl sighed. He felt the weight of on his shoulders grow. How had Barricade afforded these Amalgii?

 

“I am now,” Barricade said. “I didn’t want a debate with you, next thing I’d know I’d have been taking them home with me!”

 

“Mechanisms say I am stubborn,” the Lord of Law retorted. With a final shove the large lounge was out of the way. “I will buy a new couch... But only because I am not moving this thing again.”

 

“I knew you’d see reason,” the elder Praxian teased, draping an arm over Prowl’s shoulders and lightly knocking his helm against his brother’s. Prowl nudged his helm back against his Barricade’s. He might have resented the intrusion, and the violation of his morals his older brother had forced on him, but it was motivated by love, at least there was that. It was impossible to hate Barricade for caring.

 

Prowl did not tell his brother his true motivation for replacing in living room furniture. The servants quarters were small, too small to be the entire world of two mechlings. Thus far, that was where they had fuelled, played and recharged, in a berthroom half the size of Prowl office. This did not need to be the case. Once his brother had gone home, the Lord of Law returned to that office, but work was not on his processor. He needed solid, comfortable furniture that could survive the chaos that came with sparklings. Black, not red, that would come clean easily, and a soft rug that would cushion falls. If they were anything like Bluestreak, they would be into everything once they were healthy. Sunstreaker had already demonstrated this particular piece of sparkling nature. Once the Amalgii were gone, the new couches would be no more offensive to the Lord of Law’s optics than those ridiculous pieces that had been forced upon him, and at least they would be comfortable, though Prowl did not imagine he would get anymore use out of them. Leisure was not for him. With both couches and tables selected, the Praxian went to submit his order, but then hesitated.

 

There was an icon glaring back at him, he clicked it. It should have been the procreator outfitting the sparklings’ nursery, but the Amalgus had only purchased a berth for the two to share. He had been content to stick with the storage unit that had been in the room when the Praxian had purchased the habsuite, it had already been ancient by that point. Prowl had no experience with twins, they were almost unheard of in Praxus, and he had never seen a pair before these mechlings. They might have preferred to share the berth, they certainly held tight to each other when they had been in his arms. He considered for a nanoklik buying another berthpad or a second berth altogether, but he dismissed this idea. Jazz knew better than Prowl what those mechlings needed. There was a storage unit that matched the berth, Prowl saw, and low berthside tables, without a nanoklik’s hesitation, Prowl added it to his cart. The netshop was full of decor ideas for nurseries and sparking berthroom. Wall decals, lamps, kitsch of every size, colour, design. It was not his nursery, and the Praxian resisted the impulse to add any of these things to the cart. Playthings, those were what the mechlings needed more of, things to touch and enjoy, not just knickknacks to look at. Before he could be tempted into overstepping any further, Prowl submitted his order, and moved on to the matter of toys.

 

Blocks and puzzles cubes were good toys. The mechlings’ procreator would have known they would not receive any kind of an education, he taken the opportunity to buy toys that offered some educational value, as well as fun. Bluestreak had always enjoyed puzzles, he still did, but he still had always held a fondness for plushies. Prowl added multiples of everything that caught his optics, anything they did not make use of could be easily be donated. When he saw decals on this shopfront too, the Lord of Law found it more difficult to resist. He reasoned, after a few nanokliks’ debate, that if he bought a selection of different styles, and Jazz could use whatever he wanted. As with the toys, anything that went unused could be donated. Hoist ran a toy drive at his clinic on a regular bases. If Barricade knew what he was doing, he would have questioned Prowl’s sanity, and maybe rightly. Prowl had the credits to spend, he reasoned, and giving the start in life this bitlets had faced, they deserved a few luxuries.

 

***

 

Jazz did not understand this mech. He was a baron, he was the Lord of Law, he had credits to burn but he wanted to wash his own dishes, make his own berth, and do just about everything all by himself. Everything save for cooking, the slave amended. Self-sufficiency was generally something the progenitor would appreciate or admire, but there was something about Master Prowl that made it just utterly frustrating. When he was running on fumes and should of been resting, he was moving furniture and telling Jazz _he_ needed to rest. To be fair, the Amalgus did feel like slag. Every limb was heavy, and Jazz could have spent all light and dark-cycle curled up with the Twins, and have been grateful to do it, but anxiety kept him checking up on his Master.

 

“Geni!” Sideswipe called him and Jazz climbed to his peds. His master could have just asked him to move the slag off the carpet, there had been no reason to call Barricade. In the same moment his creation dove into his arms, the slave heard the Enforcer curse, followed by his master’s cool rebuke. He smiled.

 

“Y’re ‘sposed to be rechargin’,” Jazz chastised his creation with a croon in his chassis.

 

“Geni,” his second emerged demanded. “Wit Geni!”

 

“Oh,” the Amalgus replied, and he forced himself to smile, even as the simple demand made him melancholy. They could not get used to this. When they were no longer in their sickberth, everything would return to normal.

 

Sunstreaker was sitting up in the berth, and Jazz shook his helm. His first emerged had the same want as his brother, but he had allowed Sideswipe to do the dirty work of getting out of their comfy berth and asking. There was nothing wrong with his processor. Jazz climbed into the berth and both mechlings immediately climbed on top of him, sighing luxuriantly as they immediately entered recharge, draped on his chassis. All plans to slip off again once they were settle were quite thoroughly nixed. While this might have been one of the Twins favourite ways to recharge, their progenitor was not convinced they did not have an ulterior motive, that was to keep him in berth with them, by keeping him pinned. The Amalgus let his helm sink into the pillow. None of the other linens smelled like their master, but the soft scent of the Praxian still remained on the pillow. Could he had actually taken it off of his own berth for them? From the berth, Jazz heard a ping at the door, no doubt announcing Master Barricade’s arrival. He strained his audials to listen to their conversation through two doors, but his frame was still sluggish from the ineffection, and the plague, and despite himself, Jazz slipped into a peaceful recharge.

 

Light-cycle came, and Jazz onlined with more strength that he had the previous stellar-cycle. The mechlings were still recharging on his chassis, their little spark pulsed in unison against his. He wrapped his warms around them, and bathed them in love. They sighed, in unison again, and snuggled into his arms. With nothing to force himself up for, Jazz stayed in berth, nuzzling and loving his creations until they slowly came back online. This time it was not just Sunstreaker who resisted actually getting up, Sideswipe clung to his progenitor, little claws curled into his plating, whole frame magnetized to Jazz’s frame. Jazz crooned glyphs of encouragement. If his creation felt needy, than he could feel needy, and the slave would not snarl or scowl for it. It was a luxury to be able to stay until his creation was ready to separate, his master had no tasks for him, no desires for him. But the bitlets’ small tanks would be complaining soon and once Jazz had Sideswipe settled with a puzzle cube, and Sunstreaker had himself cocoon back in the blankets, the Amalgus left them to see to their fuel.

 

There was not sign of his master, though the Praxian rarely left a trace of himself behind. It was not unlike living with a ghost, a ghost that ate the fuel left for him, and then did the dishes. Jazz shook his helm, the mech was so much an unknown, and the slave found himself bristling. He needed to know the mech’s limits if he was going to stay in them, but Master Prowl refused to give him any, it was unbearable. Though he busied himself making energon cakes, the Amalgus’ processor kept drifting off to his master, trying to decipher his motivations. Why giving Jazz that pillow, was the Lord of Law trying to lull him? Was he trying to get the slave comfortable with his scent? Did he intend to ingratiate himself on the Amalgus until Jazz welcomed him into his berth and frame? So he could tell himself the slave was willing?

 

It felt plausible, frighteningly so, and Jazz’s servo was shaking when he put a plate down for the Praxian, and covered it. The Amalgus collected the plates he had served for himself and the mechling, and retreated back to the false security of the mechlings’ berthroom. To make it easier to listen for his master, Jazz kept the berthroom door open. He tensed when he heard the Praxian move about the kitchen, and he waited for Master Prowl to return to his office. Except the mech did not leave the kitchen. For a quarter of a joor, he stayed in the kitchen, consuming the fuel Jazz had left. Though Jazz reasoned the Lord of Law would leave once he had put his dishes away, this was not what happen. Pedsteps came steadily towards the door, and the slave stopped ventilating. It was going to happen. It was going to happen again. But the door did not open. Jazz heard scraping in the livingroom, the sound of metal striking metal, and he was confused. Gathering his courage, the Amalgus found his peds, left Twins to their fuel, and games, and went to investigate the strange noises.

 

Jazz found his master sitting on the floor, dismantling one of the lounges. The coordinating piece remained whole, pushed off to the side. Considering the scuffs on the floor, moving it that far had been hard work for the Praxians. He was a handsome sight, this mech, this master, an observation the Amalgus did not relish. On the contrary it had him question his sanity. Of the Praxians who had abused him, many might have been attractive mechanisms, even they had not been forcing themselves into his frame. Their doorwings, big panels of armour, the way they flared wide, towered over him and made him small. Survival had made him learn the language, at least as much as he could decipher without instructions. His master had quiet doorwings, they moved, but rarely in more than a fraction of a degree. They moved so little Jazz had no choice but to stare at them so he did not miss a warning for what would come.

 

“Can I help you?” The Praxian asked, not looking up from his project. The sentence could be taken more than one way, and it all depended on tone. His master barely spoke in anything more than a monotone.

 

“I was wonderin’ if ya’d let me help ya?” Jazz asked, trying to quell his anxiety, and he watched quiet doorwings droop.

 

“I am managing,” Master Prowl replied. “You should rest.”

 

“‘M fine,” the slave said, he inched his way around the room, towards the other couch. “It ain’t really strenuous work.”

 

“If you are certain,” the Praxian said.

 

“Funny that they don’t compress,” Jazz said as he sat at the arm of the second couch. What was he trying to do? The Amalgus did not know why he was helping the mech disassemble furniture. The need to ingratiate himself was all consuming.

 

“They were not designed for convenience,” Master Prowl replied. “They were designed to be consummate symbols of wealth, and respectability.”

 

“Respectability the reason these cushions are metal?” The Amaglus asked. He wanted to understand this mech. Jazz was terrified of all the unknowns. Fear should have kept his glossa locked, but it made it loose instead.

 

“It is called the Agonies Movement,” the Lord of Law said. “They believe suffering is vital to a prosperous life.”

 

“Sounds like they never been in pain,” Jazz replied, more brittle than dry. From the corner of his optic, he saw the mech freeze.

 

“No,” Master Prowl agreed, after a moment. They worked in silence a while longer, long enough that the slave began to wonder if his master was a member of that cult, and if he had mocked it and him a little too openly. The Praxian wrenched the arm he had been working on off the base. “I did not buy it, any of. My procreators did. They would never want it for their own habsuite.”

 

“But for ya it was fine?” the slave asked. It was a mistake, but he could not stop himself from asking.

 

“It suited their image of me,” the Praxian said, moving on to the next screw.

 

Did this mech work himself into collapse because of that image imposed on him? Jazz scowled at the settee in front of him. There was nothing wrong with teaching your creations a strong work ethic, but teaching Master Prowl that he should work so hard he made himself ill? It was unforgivable to the progenitor. This treatment explained the stiff way the Lord of Law carried himself, the cold and calculating optics, though it did not explain how Master Barricade could be so different. The mech who had purchased him was without question the older of the brothers, and by a number of vorns. Perhaps he had been lucky, maybe they had fallen into the cult when he was too old to easily indoctrinate. Somehow this theory did not satisfy Jazz. Cults often demanded purity as a demonstration as piety, and the slave had seen some of these pious mechanisms fall into the worse perversion. This mech could prove to be the same. Runing from this though, Jazz made quick work of the settee, using his latent strength, and nimble digits to render it into five more manageable pieces, and to pile them on top of each other, it took maybe a bream. When he stood up, he saw his master staring, the Praxian was still working on his couch, on the same component.

 

“I can finish,” Jazz offered, pleased to know his digits were as clever as ever. He could make himself useful... he could. Swallowing his anxiety, the Amalgus inched over to the kneeling Praxian.

 

“You do appear better skilled at this than me,” Prowl relented. “How do you take your pressed energon?”

 

“Me?” The Amalgus asked, looking up from the stripped screw that had been giving his master grief. “Cobalt.”

 

“Cobalt,” the Lord of Law said with a nod, he walked into the kitchen.

 

Jazz watched after him, only a nanoklik before he looked back to the couch. The way his master brewed his energon, he did not have high hopes but there was definitely a novelty to this, to his master brewing him energon. It said something about this mech, even it meant he seemed all too good to be true. When the screw refused to given, the slave snapped if with a quick flick of his thumb, and he brushed the screw away. Before the mech could rejoin him. Master Prowl probably would not care if he did notice, but if he did, the Amalgus thought he would blame it on metal fatigue. He had no idea how much this mech knew of Amalgii, only that the Lord of Law had been unprepared for the venom. The slave could only hope that his master had recognized the effects, what it was the Ex Aurae did, by the end. Then again, his processor had been thoroughly blown. Now if Jazz had done that to him interfacing, he might have been prouder. But more likely he would have been much sicker.

 

It took a couple of kliks to finish the job his master had started. By then a cube was sitting on the counter for him. Jazz stood, and walked over to take it. The colour looked right, and when he swirled it, the texture and fluidity looked right as well. He took it, tasted it, and was pleased. His master finally poured his own mixture into a cube. Jazz thought it poured more like an oil pudding than fluid energon, and the colour was such a deep black there was not even a sheen. This was not the first cube the slave had seen like this. Ratchet had drunk his fuel this way, and cautioned Jazz to never try it. Naturally, the younger mech had not listened to the warning, and he had been buzzed for mega-cycles. In fact, the synthesia that had come with it had taken quartexes to pass. From speaking to the medic, Jazz also knew where Ratchet had learned to brew that kind of pressed energon.

 

“It looks like the slag I seen in the precinct in Polihex,” Jazz observed.

 

“It is my understanding that the Enforcer brew is standard planet wide,” Prowl replied. “I wonder what had you in an Enforcer precinct?”

 

“Weren’t an Enforcer, if that’s what y’re askin’,” the Amalgus replied, and smiled.

 

His master’s sigh was almost imperceptible. Let him come to whatever conclusions he liked. Clearly this mech was a rule follower, and a rule maker. Perhaps he would not want to wet his spike in the valve of a criminal. Jazz was a convicted criminal, as it happened. He had been arrested for racing, one or twice or six times, and fined accordingly. They had never caught him on a proper job, Punch had trained him better. So far as his record was concerned, he was a reckless driver, and nothing more. The truth was far more interesting but the Fellowship had a code that even a consummate ruler breaker such as Jazz knew to obey. It helped that his originator was the head of the organization that had guarded Doradus, and the Amalgii for millions of stellar-cycles, and respect for this code had been all but written in his programming. Ratchet was an honorary member, thanks to his vorns of patching up Punch and his offspring. As far as Jazz knew, the medic was the only non-Amalgii aware of the organization’s existence. Straxus might have been Polihex’s Prince, he was not the Amalgii’s sovereign.

 

A ping at the door had Jazz’s plating flare. Master Prowl lowered his cube to the counter, seemingly oblivious to his slave’s reaction, and walked to the door in a few smooth strides. It was more delivery drones. The Amalgus sighed and his plating smoothed, but still he stepped back as his master stepped aside to allow them entry. Though they were just drones, Jazz watched them closely as they deposited two large cubes wrapped in plastic, a large transport crate, and what could only be a rug, and then collected the disassembled couches, tables, and the stained rug. Was the Lord of Law neurotic enough to replace his entire living room set because of a stain on a carpet? Jazz could not imagine having the credits to throw at something like this, without even a flicker of concern. His family had never gone hungry, the Fellowship was bankrolled by the tribunal that governed their city,and the pay was not bad, but if he had saved every credit he had ever earned, the slave would not have had more than a fraction of what his master had in just the one account Jazz had accessed.

 

“That is a start,” Prowl said, Jazz thought he was thinking out loud.

 

“I can help,” he offered.

 

“I suppose you will insist,” the Lord of Law replied. The Amalgus smiled by means of an answer. “If you will help me with the rug.”

 

It proved to be a simple rug, the diametric opposite to its predecessor. Plain black, without a stitch of embroidery, the thick, dense weave could stand up to vorns of wear. Jazz watched his master as he opened the crate, and unpacked a pair of side tables and a long low table. They were made from a similar metal as the Praxian’s berthside tables, but not quite as utilitarian or plain. Their tops were inlaid with clear crystals. Very Praxian and that observation made the Amalgus’ spark skip, and it reminded he was facing. Of course the tables would be Praxian, Jazz mused as his spark calmed. This was Praxus, his master was Praxian. His master was watching him.

 

“You should rest,” the taller mech said.

 

“‘M good,” Jazz replied. He wanted to run and hide, but something had him digging his peds in. Pride. “Only take a couple more kliks anyways.”

 

In deviance of his own spark and frame, Jazz walked to one of the compressed couches, and hauled it over to the livingroom. Master Prowl watched, he did not supervise, he watched. Maybe he was only just coming to terms to their difference of strength. The Amalgus had thought it common knowledge, but maybe not. He looked to his master for guidance. Almost tentatively, the Lord of Law joined him, and he unlocked the transformation mechanism and the couch unfolded. Like the rug, it was plain black, like its predecessor it was deep but unlike its predecessor the cushions were thick and soft. That right there was a vast improvement. Together they put the couch into place, and Jazz carried the other over, and Master Prowl initiated its transformation sequence, and in a few nanokliks, it too was in place. The Praxian put the tables where he wanted them, and then just turned away and began cleaning up the debris that came with his purchases, he dumped it all into the crate.

 

He did not seem to take any satisfaction in the chore. Jazz stepped back and looked the space over. A couple of colourful pillows, and a blanket or two, would save it from look drab, but the slave got the sense his master did not care about style. The door chimed again, and again Jazz watched his master go to answer it. This time, the sight of the drones dropping more packages onto the floor did not quite terrify him, though the slave wished the Praxian would just bring them inside himself, like Jazz had when he had ordered the Twins’ berth and groceries. Considering he had walked in on the Lord of Law taking apart the old couches, the delivery of new ones made perfect sense. But Jazz had no idea what could be in these crates, and he eyed them with naked suspicion.

 

“What is that?” He asked, as the screaming in his helm became too much. Jazz had watched, shackled, helpless, as crates like these had been unpacked one by one.

 

“Things for your creations,” his master replied.

 

Something in Jazz snapped. He stalked over, and lifted off the lid of the first crates. Toys. Innocent toys. There were three crates worth of... things. Three crates worth of things for his sparklings, furniture for their room. The progenitor had seen the storage unit and tables when he had ordered the berth. Jazz was shaking when he lifted a plush ursanokor from the crate. Grief, and rage fell over him in increasingly powerful surges. He had wanted to buy this for them. Something for them to cling to, something that would sooth them when they recharged alone. Their first plushie. Plushies... The progenitor stared at the storage unit, and then down to the crate. A package of wall decals caught his optics. It was the making of a nursery, his mechlings’ nursery. Angry tears poured from his optics, and he dug his digits into the plush, only barely able to stop himself from tearing it to pieces. They were his creations, his! It should have been Jazz setting up their nursery, him!

 

“So what y’re playin’ house wit us?” He snapped. It was insane. This mech was insane, Jazz was insane. Processor overwhelmed, he gestured to the livingroom as he screamed at his master, the tears never slowing. “We dolls for some game?”

 

“Calm down,” Prowl ordered, utterly calm against the slave’s outburst. Jazz could not stop shaking. Fear rose up, and overwhelmed anger, and the Amalgus sank to the floor, he brought his arms up and covered his helm. He waited, and he waited. His master did not move to strike him.

 

“Master?” Jazz asked, waiting and waiting. He could not bare to wait for it.

 

“You do not need to worry about upsetting me,” the Praxian said, never moving so much as a millimetre towards him. His voice was cold, and firm. “I will not strike you for raising your voice to me. I will not strike you for angering me. I will not strike you. I will not sell you, or them.”

 

“Why?” the slave demanded, voice high with stress, he raised his helm to face this mech. It was the thought loop that would not leave his helm. Why? Why? Why? The scream became so loud he could not think.

 

“Keeping you violates my morals,” the Praxian stated, with unmistakable finality. “Selling you would be worse.”

 

“Ya don’t want us,” Jazz said, he prayed. “Y’re gonna sell us the nanoklik ya trip o’er us too many times.”

 

“I will not,” Prowl insisted. “I do not use the space, and I never have. You might as well.”

 

“Why not?!” Jazz demanded. “You never sit ‘n just be? Never?”

 

“I have work to do,” the Praxian replied, voice gone flat. He turned, and walked away.

 

Jazz wanted to lunge at him, to pin him to the ground, and hold him there until he gave the slave a proper answer. Master Prowl walked away, ran away into his office. He locked himself away, the Amalgus heard the lock engage. It enraged him how easily this mech walked away. How easily he could ignore a _slave_ screaming at him. Did he feel anything, at all, Jazz wondered as he wiped away his tears, and waited for his frame to stop shaking. His legs felt like jelly, the slave did not trust himself to stand. Instead he sat, shoulders hunched, and stared at the plush ursanokor still clutched in his servos. Praxians had robbed him of everything. Kindness, inspired by guilt or no, still felt like a violation. Optics offline, Jazz leaned his helm against the crate, held the plush to his own chassis and grieved.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay... THIS is going to be the last chapter in at least a week. I'm back to work tomorrow, and I am not going to have all this time to write...

His master never reappeared. Jazz sat a long time leaning against the crate, mourning everything he had lost. He did not want this mech’s gifts, or his kindness. How could he really be kind? Master Prowl was so, so cold. From beyond the doors, the progenitor heard whimpering, and he dropped his helm with another long vent. They had overheard too much in their short lives, he did not know if they understood enough to just fear for him or also to fear their master. Wearily, Jazz pushed himself up, using the crate for support. The fight had taken every last scrap of reserves he had, and the slave was not just physically exhausted but emotionally drained. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker needed him, and Jazz would not leave them to worry any longer. Beyond the puzzle cube and blocks, the progenitor had never been able to give the mechlings anything, now there were crates worth of things to give them. He resented them, these thing, Primus did he resent them, and the mech who had purchased them, but his bitlets had nothing. Could he really just shove these crates to the side, and deny his creations the toys because that mech had bought them? Abandoning the storage unit for later, Jazz lifted the first of the crates, spark simmering with impotent anger, and he opened the door the his family’s quarters.

 

“Geni!” Sunstreaker exclaimed, and he pressed himself against his progenitor’s legs. The bitlet was shaking. His twin climbed up Jazz’s side warbling in a mix of binary, and Amalgus Cybertronian through harsh ventilations.

 

“Bitties, bitties‘m okay, ‘m okay,” Jazz crooned, anger disappearing in the face of his creations. “Sweetsparks, let’s go inside, I got treats for ya. Come on, my loves, I can’t walk wit ya climbin’ on me, ‘n I don’t wanna drops this ‘n hurt ya.”

 

They relented, eventually. Jazz would have to figure out how they were getting passed that lock. As it stood, they were more proficient than even he had been at their age, and their grand-originator had called Jazz a protege. He thought of the lock on his master’s door. It would be easy to hack, the Amalgus thought it would take him two kliks at most, but it would not be wise to let the mech know just how much he was capable of. Escape might yet require this very skill. They were not locked in from the outside, he realized, but the residential tower probably had an encryption keeping creatures like himself in, and the riffraff out. As soon as Jazz put the crate on the floor, and sat down on the berth, the Twins were climbing all over him, they could not have cared less about the crate.

 

Only once they were convinced their progenitor was in one piece did they finally settle, but they still paid no attention to the box. They had started to fall apart when he had returned with wounds, as soon as they could recognize his pain, once Jazz had figured this out, he had been a very good little slave, always coyly trying to manipulate his master into delivering the blows were the crystal armour he was made to wear might cover the worst of it. Unfortunately Roadrash had caught on to that scheme just about immediately, and while he had played the game, encouraging Jazz to beg for his rod or flail, he then grinned down at his slave, and struck Jazz straight across his chassis, or down his back, where he knew the mechlings would see. Roadrash had known, and had relish how much it had broken Jazz.

 

“‘M okay, sweetlings, see no owies” He said, they did not seem convinced. Jazz patted the crate. “See, nothin’ at all. Come on, my bitties, have a look, there’s treasures for ya.”

 

Neither leapt right in. They did not understand present, or surprises. Jazz put them on his lap, nuzzled and loved on them, and then reached in, pulling two mystery gifts from the crate. Of course they were plushies, more plushies, the progenitor almost laughed. He knew at least one of the crates still outside was just about overflowing with more. Whatever mechling had inspired Master Prowl’s purchases, he had a thing for cuddly toys. Or perhaps these had been things his master had wanted for himself, could he have been denied soft things like these? No way, procreators rich like his had been, Prowl must have had every toy he could have wanted. Sunstreaker squished his in his servos, uncertain what to make of it. It was easy to explain what puzzles and blocks were for, it was not so easy to explain stuffed mechanimals. They would figure it out, and they would like them or hate them. Where Jazz had kept a collection of these things when he had been little, Ricochet had only kept one plushie. So far as Jazz knew, his brother still had the worn out Dweller, he had dubbed Digger. When the younger twin had moved on to other collections, and other things, his originator had taken some of the plushies Jazz had been fondest of to save, and he had given away the rest. Did Punch know he had grand-creations?

 

“Now what’s this?” Jazz asked. He reached into the crate, and pulled out a set of digit paints, and honest to Primus canvasses. His spark clenched. “Do ya know what these are Sunshine? These are paints for ya.”

 

“Ooooo,” his first emerged lit up, and he took the paint, and stared at them in wonder. Then looked up to his progenitor. “Mine.”

 

“Yes, bitty, yours, but you’ll share wit yer brother, right?” The progenitor asked. Sunstreaker shook his helm. Curiosity peaked, Sideswipe dove straight into the crate, and started digging around. Jazz laughed. “Well, Sides, what do you like?”

 

Sideswipe liked a keyboard. Jazz stared at it with surprise as his creation immediately starting pressing the keys, and laughing joyously at the sounds. This was the last sort of toy he had imagined their master buying. It was going to make a racket. The slave absolved to let the sparkling make all the noise he wanted, if Master Prowl had given them the gift, he had better have been prepared for some noise. Mixed amongst the toys, were games, shakers, and still more plushies. A net sent a jolt of fear through Jazz’s spark but he realized quickly it was meant to hold the plushies, once it was attached to the wall, so the mechlings could reach for their treasures whenever they wanted. _Damn him_. Concerned about overwhelming them with too much at once, and already well beyond overwhelmed himself, Jazz left the Twins to play as he sorted through the remaining crates.

 

They did not need it all at once, or all of it at all. Prolonging the joy sounded like the best thing the progenitor could do for all three of them. There were duplicates of ever plush, and at first Jazz wondered why. He sighed when it became clear, the Praxian had not wanted them to have to share. His creations could share, they would share all but what they loved best, and maybe those treasures as well. Although Sunstreaker might be a little clingy with those paints. Still the sentiment behind the extravagance, it was becoming hard for the slave to see cruelty in it. At the bottom of the third crate, there was more bedding, identical to what the progenitor had already bought, at the bottom of one crate, more pillows... so many pillows. Would their master want his back?

 

Deleting that thought train, the Amalgus dug deeper and found a rug. When he pulled it onto his lap, Jazz laughed. White, for his creations? Did Master Prowl not remember his own rug? But then, the progenitor turned it over, and found there were markers. Oh. It was meant to be drawn on. There were instructions on how to wipe it clean so the fun could begin again. _Damn him._ Cursing his master, Jazz roughly wiped away tears. He did not want to like this mech. When he had shed what tears he had, the last thing left for the Amalgus to look through were the decals. Jazz resigned himself to see what vision his master had for _his_ creations’ nursery. As he sat, and sifted through the packages, his spark softened, and Jazz felt forced to admit that his accusation towards the Praxian had been absolutely wrong. There were too many to use, too many for him to be meant to. A half dozen different themes, Master Prowl had bought everything, so that Jazz could make the choice himself. _Damn him_. Jazz had thrown it this kindness back in Master Prowl’s face. His master had not been playing house, he had bought the slave the means to decorate this Twins nursery how Jazz wanted. _Damn him._ The progenitor was going to have to apologize to that cold sparked slagger.

 

A set of glow in the dark stars called to him, and Jazz sat them on his knees, and stroked the package. They had never seen stars except through a window. Some mega-cycle, his creations would recharge under real stars, but for now, these ones would do. Fitting with the stars, Jazz found moons, and planets, and other space themed decals. These were what he would use. As Sunstreaker was absorbed in his digit paints, and Sideswipe those old familiar blocks, he climbed the wall. No master had seen him do this, and this one would not either. They had tortured him, demanding to know how he had escaped their pens, and holding cells, but the Amalgus had never revealed the truth. When they had filed his claws, deciding this must have been how he had been escaping, Jazz had been relieved, or he had been relieved until they had sent him back to the Auction, and he had been sold to a brothel, and not another factory. Hindsight was everything. Chasing this memory away, Jazz turned the ceiling into the dark-cycle sky. From memory, he adhered the moons and stars in precise placement. He made the constellations that had hung over the desert skies of his homeland. The task absorbed him for a joor. While the Twins played below him. At some point Sideswipe tired of the blocks and returned to that little keyboard, and went wild. It made his progenitor wince, but Jazz supposed his originator had felt the same way with his first forays into music.

 

“Oooooo,” Sideswipe sang, his brother looked up from his painting with an expression of disgust. Their progenitor let himself drop from the ceiling.

 

“Groovy, Sides.”

 

“Eh?” Sunstreaker asked, the little critic.

 

“Ya could be his back up singer,” Jazz suggested. “Would ya look at that Sunny...”

 

Sunstreaker had covered every micrometre of the canvas with paint, swaps of red and yellow, little strokes of blue. He was looking at it now, lower lip quivering. Jazz kissed his paint covered cheek. The progenitor guessed what his creation’s conflict was, and he unwrapped anther canvas and set it down in front of Sunstreaker. That carpet Master Prowl had purchased would be perfect for them. Had he made a lucky guess, based on nothing more than a stain on a rug, or did he actually have experience with sparklings? It had not seemed that way to Jazz. His master had been so stiff when he had held Sideswipe. But then, it had been clear that he had know how to hold the mechlings. Could Master Barricade have creations? Though the Lord of Law was a purus, his brother was not. Maybe Master Prowl had a nephew or two. And yet, that felt wrong too. Somehow Jazz did not see the Vigilum Secondus as a procreator. In fact, when he had held the mechlings back in the Auction he had been awkward as Pit, though he had been gentle with them. How did Master Prowl know the first thing about what they would need?

 

“ _You brought bitlets into my habsuite.”_

 

He really had sounded scandalized. Was there something the brothers knew between them that explained Master Prowl’s awkward familiarity with sparklings? The Praxian could not have secret creations, Jazz was certain of that. Though the slave tried to imagine his master carrying on an affair with a bonded mechanism, or a single procreator, the image made him smirked with the absurdity of it all. This mech worked, and recharged, and only barely remembered to fuel. When would he have had time to have an affair? No, the similar explanation would have been a younger sibling, but that would not explain Master Prowl’s vocalized aversion to bitlets. Unless they had suffered a loss? Could something had happened on his master’s watch? Why was Jazz still trying to make sense of this mech? Because he was a puzzle, because he was an unknown, and because the Amalgus needed to know.

 

There was no sign of their master when Jazz finally found the courage to leave the Twins’ berthroom. He moved the old storage unit out, and the new one in. When he thought about knocking on the office door, and apologizing, the progenitor’s plating flared and he scowled. _Calm down_. Frag you too. Jazz carefully moved the matching storage unit into place in his mechlings’ berthrooms. Taking all the extra linens in his arms, the Amalgus put them away, along with the armour he still hesitated to put on them. Though he had watched Hoist run the plating regenerator over the brands, and they looked perfectly healed, Jazz still did not want to stress their protoforms with the unfamiliar weight of armour, it was not as though Roadrash had ever bought them any kind of armour. If he had, it probably would have been crystal armour, just to rub the Amalgus’ face in it. Thank Primus that mech was not their progenitor. Could Jazz have loved them so much if they had been kindled in his spark by that mech?

 

Jazz did not want to think about that Pitspawn. He hummed, trying to drown out the thoughts, and when that did not work, he sang in full voice. Sideswipe played along on his keyboard, or he tried. Sunstreaker made his opinion known, by throwing his helm back and howling. His progenitor dropped to his knees, the net now filled with plushes at sparkling height, and he laughed, and laughed. For his part, Sideswipe looked indignant. Bristling, he tackled his twin and they rolled around the berth, yowling like a pair of cyberkittens. Their progenitor crooned as he reached over, and gently separated them. Twins fought, any siblings fought. Even when they were grown, Jazz thought of the Praxians. But he did not want the mechlings to hurt each other, or melt down too far, and he pulled them into his arms, and spoke softly. They needed more space. Damn. Him for being right. Sunstreaker could have his quiet, and Sideswipe could be wild and loud. It was hard, no it was more than that, it felt impossible to take that step, and to claim that space their master had made them.

 

When the Twins had made peace with each other, and had settled in to a nap, Jazz went to the kitchen to make them fuel. It was late, he had gotten lost in his own processor, and maybe he had been hiding a little, hoping to avoid the Lord of Law, just a little longer. _Calm Down_. His shoulders hunched and his plating flared again. There was no sign of their master. He did not hear a sound from the Praxian’s office or berthroom. Still, knowing he was there, and that he could appear at any moment, kept the slave on edge. Jazz did not linger any longer than he had to. Maybe at least a little out of spite, he left his master a plate of fuel, and he retreated back to the nursery. Joors later, after he had built up the will again, the Amalgus slipped back out to wash their plates. The plate he had left was still sitting on the counter, untouched. Claws curled over the counter, Jazz stared down the hall. Was this how things were going to play?

 

Something had to give. Jazz had been willing to give his master a mega-cycle’s space. He had been disappointed to see the dinner he had left the first dark-cycle still sitting on the counter the next light-cycle, but he had absolved to give the Praxian some space, in hopes that he would come out for his breakfast. But he did not, neither did he come out for lunch, or for dinner. By the end of the second mega-cycle, the Amalgus was feeling considerably less patient. In fact, he was down right annoyed. The door was still fragging locked too, which meant if Jazz wanted a confrontation, he was going to have to knock, and he just could not get up the nerve. _Calm down._ Every time he remembered the glyphs he got increasingly annoyed. How would the apology go if he screamed it at the mech? Maybe the slave needed to hide the press, because that was the one thing the slave had seen evidence of use. Stubborn slagtard, Jazz groused. Stubborn. S _tupid_ slagtard. _Calm down._ Coward. At least fragging fuel? Would it kill him to take care of himself? Cleaning up another wasted plate well passed 00:00 joors the Amalgus decided that the next mega-cycle they were going to have their talk, and his master was going to eat whatever Jazz made him!

 

Though Jazz rose early, he found the press had been used, which meant despite getting up before dawn, he had still managed to miss the Praxian. It was worse than living with a ghost, a ghost had the courtesy to already be dead. Master Prowl, he was very much alive, and Jazz needed him to stay that way As Jazz made his own brew, he scowled darkly. He did not like early mornings, especially futile ones, and he was just so tired, so sick and so tired. It looked as though he could not just wait the mech out, fine. The slave did not like it, but he would go after the damned mech if Master Prowl was going to be like a fragging coward. Fuelled by anger, and maybe a dash of insanity, Jazz prepared a breakfast feast. It had been over two mega-cycle since his master had eaten any real fuel and he was going to eat some now, if the Amalgus had to force it down his throat... Right, as if Jazz could keep the nerve to do that. With the plate piled high, the slave swallowed his fear, and still running on that anger, he lifted the tray, and stalked over to the door.

 

It was not locked. Jazz cocked his helm, trying to decide if this was an improvement, if it meant his master was ready to be approached, or if the Praxian had just gotten lacks? To his eternal displeasure, Jazz realized it could easily be either. This was his biggest problem, after everything that had happened in the last few mega-cycles, the Lord of Law was still very much an unknown. Brushing the door with his shoulder as he tried to balance the tray, it slid open, and Jazz cursed with surprise. He turned, stumbled, an apology on his lipplates, but he caught himself, and the tray. Then he stopped and stared. Master Prowl was laying on against his desk, helm in the crook of his elbow, his other arm outstretched. The screen of a datapad was still glowing beneath his cheek. For one terrifying nanoklik, the slave thought he might be dead, but that chevron was still red, and there was still the soft, steady whisper of intakes, though Jazz only heard them once his own intakes evened out. Setting the platter on a sidebar covered in neat stacks of datapads, he went to his master.

 

Jazz frowned as he stared down at the mech. He did not smell engex. There was no empty injector, or other sign of Syk, or speeders. For a bream the Amalgus stood there, servo reaching but not quite touching, and his master recharged on. Taking a deep intake, and gathering his courage, Jazz brushed his digits against the back of the Lord of Law’s outstretched servo. The mech did not quite jerk awake, but he pulled his servo towards himself and slowly raised his helm, looking about disoriented. When dimmed optics caught sight of who had woken him, the drowsy mech reared back with enough force to send himself, and his chair, flying backwards. They struck the wall with a clear thump. Fully online, the Lord of Law looked about, a little wild. Tentatively he rolled himself forward, and looked down to his desk. It was almost amusing, watching Master Prowl lift the data he had been recharging on. Really, Jazz might have found it hilarious if the mech did not still look about as tired as he too felt. How much of this was on him, and how much of this was the Praxian’s own bad habits. There was no way for the slave to say, so he did not linger on it, instead he turned back to to the sideboard, lifted his carefully balanced tray and cocked his helm ever so slightly.

 

“Well ya gonna make room?’ He asked, maybe too brightly.

 

“You cannot believe I can eat all that,” his master sounded befuddled. Jazz decided his liked it over the monotone.

 

“Not like fuelled proper in mega-cycles,” Jazz replied, still brightly, smiling in what his originator had once called a challenge. “‘N counting. Fuel deprivation _is_ bad for ya.”

 

“I do not need you to cook for me,” the Lord of Law said. He didn’t sound angry, his doorwings were high, but not too high. Was he angry? Was he tired? Was he embarrassed? What Master Prowl was, was so fragging ridiculous he had worked himself into recharge, or stasis, instead of just taking the fuel Jazz had left him like a fragging grown up.

 

“Since ya ain’t cooked yerself, I think ya do,” the Amalgus countered.

 

“I do not cook,” Prowl replied, flatly.

 

“There we go, ya do need me to cook for ya,” Jazz declared, pleasantly. “Glad we can agree on somethin’.”

 

“What?” his master’s tone was suddenly rougher. His browridge furrowed and his optics went dark. Prowl pressed a servo against his helm, his intakes made a sharp hissing sound, and his shoulders and door shot suddenly up. Pain.

 

“Master... Baron?” The slave asked. When there was not immediately an answer, Jazz became alarmed, and he warred with indecision. Did he reach for the mech, or did he run and comm the medic?

 

“I am fine,” Prowl replied, but only after what felt like joors. His helm remained bow, servo pressed firmly against his crest as he seemed to mechanically ventilate.

 

“Maybe I should get Hoist,” Jazz offered, he took a step back towards the door.

 

“No!” The Praxian exclaimed and his optics burst online, he dropped his servo. “I do not need a medic. There is nothing. It is nothing.”

 

Pain made the cold blue optics cloudy. It had come from nowhere. They had been arguing, bantering really, and then the Praxian had just been struck senseless with this helmache. Jazz did not know what it was, but he knew it was not normal. Whatever the mech had said, the slave knew his master was not fine. Master Prowl was in hurting, and the only thing the Amalgus knew was that he had somehow been the trigger. Guilt warred with caution, but guilt won. He reached for his master, and when the mech was slow to flinch, he lightly massaged his servo’s down the Lord of Law’s neck. Though Master Prowl leaned away when he felt the Amalgus’ touch, Jazz followed, and he worked gentle magnetic pulses through the tense components of the Praxian’s neck, until they slowly released. His master’s shoulders dropped, his intakes let out a soft sigh. When Master Prowl looked up again, his browridge had smoothed, and his optics were clearer.

 

“If ya don’t want me to call Hoist, ya best tell me what that was,” the Amalgus said, still massaging the other’s neck. It would have been easy to snap his spinal struts, as easy as it had been to snap the bolt, but Jazz massaged the tense structures, with gentle probing digits instead.

 

“I have a processor glitch,” the Lord of Law confessed. Just saying it brought tension back in through his shoulders, and Jazz ran his servo down his neck and between his shoulders and worked his magnets and his digits a little harder. His master’s optics dropped offline again, but more in relief than pain. “It is too deep to be treated.”

 

“So ya get helmaches?” Jazz asked.

 

“I have crashes,” Prowl replied. Crashes were the worst case scenario when dealing with processor defects. The occasional crash was not too alarming but frequent crashes suggested a greater problem. They often meant damage to the processor, whether they were a cause or a symptom. He had heard the mech say he had a time bomb in his helm, a glitch would fit that description perfctly. Jazz pulled his servo away, and dropped his servo to his side. His master looked at him, expression almost soft. “Thank you.”

 

“I figured I caused it,” the slave said.

 

“You did,” the Praxian replied, quietly. His doorwings rose and dipped in a shrug. “The unexpected is a common trigger.”

 

“Oh, mech ya got the wrong slave,” Jazz chortled. He rebooted his optics, and took a long intake. “I came to apologize.”

 

“You do not...” Prowl said.

 

“I do,” Jazz interrupted.

 

“No, you do not,” the Lord of Law interrupted him, again, and Master Prowl held his servos palm up in supplication. That gesture that the only thing that had Jazz hold his glossa. “I am sorry I lost my temper. You had, you have every right to be scared of me, and my intention. There is no excuse for barking at you.”

 

“I don’t want free rein ‘cause ‘m a slave, ‘n ya feel too guilty to gimme limits,” the slave countered. A bark, that was a funny way to describe the ice cold delivery of those glyphs. His master winced.

 

“I do not want you to have limits on your emotions,” Prowl replied. “You have full right to them.”

 

“Would ya let me apologize?” Jazz asked, he got the barest of nods. “I was cruel. I meant to be. ‘N ‘m sorry for that.”

 

“You have reasons to be afraid,” the Praxian repeated.

 

“I do,” the slave replied. “Ya terrify me. Ya don’t make any sense.”

 

“I mean what I say,” Master Prowl said, and he canted his helm up at the Amalgus.

 

“Ya said ya won’t beat us or sell us,” Jazz hummed. “Ya say we got free range o’er yer habsuite. It don’t make sense, just where do ya intend to live?”

 

“Where I always have,” his master replied, and he looked tired again. “I use this habsuite for recharge, and when I must, work. If it was socially acceptable, I would not waste the credits on it, and I would just live in my office in the Hall. I have considered just putting a press in my office here as I have in the Hall, it is the only use I have for the kitchen. If not for your activities, it may as well be boarded up. You may as well use the space, it is not otherwise going to be used.”

 

“Why?” the Amalgus asked. “Is there nothin’ else ya’d wanna do?’

 

“I do not know if that holo-imager works, I have never used it,” Prowl replied, sidestepping “You and your creations utilizing the living room does not infringe on my space. This is how I live. No one likes it. I do not expect you to like it. I would like you to accept it.”

 

“Why?” Jazz asked. “Why not just stop, in ventilate a bream. Read a datapad that don’t got some law slag on it?”

 

“I do not have time,” the Praxian replied.

 

“Ya say that a lot,” the slave said. “But y’re Lord o’ Law, y’re the boss. Make some room, take some time. Fuel.”

 

Jazz lowered the tray onto the Praxian’s desk as he spoke the last glyph. Unsurprisingly, Master Prowl reached for the pressed energon first, though he did so with the slightest of frowns. Elated for this much, and feeling exhausted, the slave retreated to the side board, and leaned against it. From his perch, he watched the mech take a sip, and sigh, not with pleasure, but relief. Jazz frowned, still debating if he should comm the medic. His master’s optics had cleared, and it seemed as though the episode had come and gone without any lingering harm, and yet the Amalgus’ instinct was that there was something amiss and he could not put his digit on why. Only once he had finished his pressed energon, did Master Prowl reach for his plate. He knew he was being watched, and he chewed and swallowed without glyph spoken, without relaxing a single component. But he suffered it without a complaint. When the Praxian had finished about a third of what Jazz had served him he looked up.

 

“You fully intend to watch me until I consume everything,” Master Prowl sighed.

 

“On the olfactory ridge,” Jazz replied. “Ya gone o’er two mega-cycle wit out proper fuel. Whene’er ya pull that, ‘m just gonna make ya a ridiculous plate to make up for what ya missed.”

 

“I will not die for one missed meal,” the Lord of Law said.

 

“ _Seven_ ,” the slave corrected him.

 

“Seven,” Master Prowl acquiesced. “I did not starve. I do have some stores in here. I am not in the habit of fuelling like _this._ ”

 

“Ya mean properly?” Jazz asked.

 

“Yes,” the Praxian replied. “Yes, fine. Properly. I work until I have to stop. I recharge, fuel, and start again. I do not waste time lingering over meals.”

 

“Why’re ya actin’ like ya runnin’ outta time?” The Amalgus asked.

 

“I am,” Master Prowl said, another shrug.

 

“Got some deadline wit the Hall?” Jazz asked. “Pretty fraggin’ sure ya can push those back.”

 

“My defect is terminal,” the Praxian explained, so flatly it was as if he were talking about something trivial, like the weather. “My crashes are becoming more frequent. My medic has described it as end stage.”

 

“Not Hoist,” the slave asked. End stage. Primus. He thought of the mechlings, the gifts. Imagined them being ripped away to go on the Auction block once more. What would happen to them?

 

“No,” Master Prowl replied. “But I have been seen by dozens of medics in my life. It was diagnosed the very mega-cycle I emerged. From that moment it was understood this would kill me before I became anything close to an old mech. I may have a thousand mega-cycles, I may have a vorn, I may have less. I must make certain I have done everything I can in what time I do have.”

 

“Frag,” Jazz cursed, finding it in his spark to feel some sympathy for the mech who had bought him. “That why he bought me? He wanted a miracle?”

 

“Barricade has never accepted my diagnoses,” the Lord of Law said. “This is not the first charlatan’s cure he has chased.”

 

“He loves ya,” the Amalgus replied. “‘M sorry I won’t live up to his expectations.”

 

“I made peace with my berth vorns ago,” Master Prowl said. “Do not dwell on it. I have bequeathed you to Hoist and his clinic... And I have left him a trust to insure it stays open, and you are all provided for, you will not see the Auction again.”

 

“Not your brother?” Jazz asked. He vastly preferred the idea of Hoist. The mech had reminded him of Ratchet, except friendly. But it was still a question he wanted answered.

 

“I do not like his partner,” the Praxian replied. “The sentiment is mutual. He will be angry Barricade spent his credits on this as it is. I do not know if he has abused my brother... Barricade is formidable, it is difficult to imagine, but I have no doubt that he would mistreat you.”

 

“I came pretty cheap,” the slave said. His selling price the first time had been highest. Before he had proven himself to be uncontrollable, and then finally... broken. It was hard to imagine the dark Praxian as being battered, but it was possible, and he felt a little sympathy for his master’s brother.

 

“Unlikely cheap enough,” Master Prowl replied. “Sideways accounts for every shanix Barricade spends, though I think he gives himself more liberties... You look unwell.”

 

“‘M fine,” Jazz said, but frag did he feel worn down. Hearing Praxian talk about his death sentence like it was nothing was draining. The parallels were uncomfortable to consider, he could not imagine living without hope.

 

“Are you sure?” the Lord of Law asked. His master watched his with those clear blue optics, for once, it did not scare him.

 

“Maybe I over did it,” the slave confessed

 

“Perhaps I should comm Hoist.” Master Prowl said.

 

“Not less ya want yer own exam,” Jazz replied. “Ya don’t look so slick yerself, Baron.”

 

“Do not worry about about lunch or dinner,” the Praxian said, admitting defeat. “I will see to it.”

 

“I thought ya didn’t cook?” the Amalgus asked.

 

“I do not,” Prowl replied. “I order delivery.”

 

***

 

Contrary to what Jazz had thought, Prowl had not starved himself in the mega-cycles that had come and gone. Still, he did not think telling the mech he had subsisted on rust sticks would have gone over well. It had not been spite that had kept him from taking the Amalgus’ offerings, but guilt. He had been heavy servoed, impatient, unkind. Barricade and he were cut from similar metal, unfortunately. They both did what they thought was right, often without thought of the consequences. Prowl had tried to pay consideration to the slave’s emotions, but it was hardly a surprise that he had failed to predict the full extent of this mech’s trauma. Bluestreak came to him with his troubles, he did not wait for Prowl to take notice, this did not speak highly of the elder Praxian’s character. Jazz would not come to him with his troubles, it was unfair to expect that of him, but the Lord of Law, well he was terrible at these things, and it was not some new development.

 

“ _You made him cry.”_

 

“ _Come inside, you are not good with other sparklings.”_

 

“ _You made him cry.”_

 

“ _Focus on your work. This is what you are good at.”_

 

“ _You made him cry.”_

 

Prowl rested his helm on his fist as he looked at the fuel still remaining on his plate. He had no appetite. It was the first thing that went whenever he felt under stress. At least he had told the mech about his glitch. When he had a proper crash, Jazz would not be caught by surprise. When, not if, when. The wire scaffolding around his glitch was collapsing, and had been for the last decavorn. Perhaps it always had been, one wire at a time. When he had been younger, the wires had regenerated almost as fast as they had burnt out, but his self-repair systems no longer came close to keeping up. Sparklings could heal from breaks and illness far faster than a grown mechanism could. Turning his helm, and looking to the door, his frown deepened. How were the mechlings fairing? Really, this was something he should have thought to ask.

 

He sighed, and took another bite. It was not the flavours Jazz used that Prowl had an aversion to, but the fact that the mech was serving him anything. None of this was right. There were rules of war, prisoners were supposed to be exchanged when conflicts ended. They were not supposed to be enslaved, shackled in factories to be milked of their venom. And other fluids... a voice whispered in the Lord of Law’s helm, and his tank rolled. It was something one of his agents had written in his last report. Skids had no evidence yet, but he had heard rumours. Rumours that everything from lubricants, to transfluids, to energon, and to plating were harvested from the Amalgii, and sold on the black market. Maybe it was only a rumour, maybe. Primus below, and moons above Prowl hoped it was just a rumour. But the brothels and interface clubs had not been a rumour. Had Jazz been abused in this way? Primus, could he even ask?

 

If he thought like a metaforensics Enforcer, would it be easier? Prowl tapped his digits, and consider this. There was a risk that Jazz would react badly. Very badly. He might decide that the Lord of Law somehow got off on the stories, that he was just another deranged pervert. If Prowl could get his testimony though, it would help his case against the council. Skids had not been able to get close enough to interview any slaves, not that they would likely say much. They had a great deal to fear. If their masters and overseers suspected they were sharing secrets, even just with the proprietors of other establishments, the slaves would suffer, more than they suffered as it was. Through the Temple’s investigation Prowl had gained access to the Auction’s records. As the Lord of Law read through the thousands of bills of sale, he saw the same identification numbers repeat. There were slaves that had made their way back to the Auctions upwards of ten times, Jazz had been through the ordeal five times.

 

When Prowl looked deeper, he found the mech had been sold first to a factory, and then on to another. With the second sale, his price had dropped, the Praxian guessed this meant the operation did not feel they were getting a good return on their investments. Prowl smiled a little, he thought the mech had fire in him. After the second factory put him up for sale, Jazz had been sold to a brothel, and the Lord of Law was no longer smiling as he read on. There was no sales activity on him for a while, but then there was a private sale listed. In the ledger someone noted that the price he had sold for was double what he had actually been worth. The buyer listed was a designation, Prowl recognized, and it had him tensing with anger and guilt. Gauntlet might not have been a known user of Ex Aurae, or a listed owner to any Amalgii, his illegitimate creation had been a familiar face in Skids surveillance photography. Roadrash did not have a clean record with Prowl’s office. After series of more minor offences, ranging from mischief, to being overcharged in a public spac, to oil bar fights, he had been brought, dragged, before Prowl. He had struck a servant, a free Praxian, with a flail during a dispute about wages. The Lord of Law had made one of those loathsome deals to force Gauntlet’s cooperation on another matter. That particularly vile sack of scrap had not been brought into the Hall again which suggested to Prowl that he had found another outlet for his aggression, it lined up perfectly with the opening of the first Amalgus brothel.

 

A bad turn in his investments had seen Roadrash liquidate his assets, or at least that was the public explanation. Through his agents, and the whispers in court, Prowl knew the mech had suffered gambling losses, so many that the creditors had come knocking on Gauntlet’s very door during one of his soirees. The embarrassment the Duke had suffered had been enough to see him cut off his creation, at least for the time being. There had been no mechlings with Jazz in any prior sale, so they had been created during Jazz’s many vorns in the slagtard’s possession. Had the mech kindled them? No. Prowl found his answer on the next page of the listings. On the twins pedigree, Jazz was listed as their progenitor. What had become of their originator, then? The mechlings and their progenitor were the only slaves Roadrash had sold. They had sold for a fraction of that exorbitant amount he had paid for Jazz, nothing close to the sum the vile mech had needed to clear his debts. Skids had not seen him at that most favourite of the brothels since he had been forced to surrender his shares to the gambling hell he owed his debts to. Glyph on the streets suggested they had banned him from the premises. It appeared the mechs he had tried to stiff had not appreciated being forced to go after Gauntlet for Roadrash’s debts. Prowl felt a measure of satisfaction with that knowledge.

 

Lost in his research, the joors ticked away and Prowl looked up from his datapad to see that lunch time was fast approaching. Guessing Jazz would start meal prep if fuel did not appear quickly, the Lord of Law pulled up the delivery app, and scoured the menus listed. He was not adventurous about his fuel. Or at least he had not been until Jazz had been all but dropped in his lap. The Amalgus seemed to be comfortable in the kitchen, but the dishes he made were completely foreign to Prowl. They were likely recipes from Polihex, or the fabled city of Doradus. A fable, because after dozens of expeditions into the Wastes the only thing the Praxian forces had found were Dwellers, and sand. There were no Polihexian restaurants in the capital, if their ever had been, the war, and the demise of Emperor Ego would have made patronage of such businesses suspect. Altihexian seemed safe, Jazz had made noodles, from scratch! He must of liked them to go through the effort. Prowl placed his order, some for now, and some for a few joors from now. It seemed more efficient this way.

 

Prowl took the datapad with him when he went into the kitchen to wait. He was so absorbed in it that he did not immediately process the ping at the door. Leaving the datapad on the counter, the Praxian took his fuel, tipped the bonafide mech who delivered it, and set it on the far corner of the counter. It was his intention to leave the fuel, and to return to his office, so Jazz would feel comfortable coming out to dish out what he and his creations needed. But as the Praian lifted up the datapad, a comment immediately caught his attention. Instead of walking back to his desk, Prowl sat at the counter, and read on. A bemused hum had him lifting his helm, however long after. Jazz stood in the kitchen, next to the delivery containers, helm cocked and optics glowing with humour. What exactly he found so amusing, the Lord of Law did not know. Him, he supposed. The Amalgus shook his helm, and went to the cupboard, Prowl immediately went back to his reading. His attention was jerked back into the present when Jazz set a plate down, just a little more firmly than necessary, on the counter right next to the Lord of Law’s servo.

 

“That was not necessary,” Prowl said. He did not know if he meant the plate in general or the thunk Jazz made when he set it down.

 

“Ya didn’t make yerself a plate,” Jazz replied.

 

“I wanted you to take what you needed,” the Praxian replied.

 

“Like ya’d take enough to short us,” the slave countered. “What are these?”

 

“What?” Prowl asked as he glanced over his left shoulder to see what had caught the other mech’s attention, and he wanted to curse. The highchairs had arrived after the other crates, and he had been able to intercept them, before Jazz could see them. Prowl had put them off to the side, intending to send them into his storage unit downstairs. Naturally, he had forgotten. Cursing himself, the Praxian forced his doorwings to stay level as he replied. “Highchairs. I thought you might want to fuel out here with them sometimes. It is a small room.”

 

He was expecting Jazz to breakdown again, and angry at himself for not doing the single thing that might have prevented it. Shame, and foreboding kept Prowl’s optics downcast. Maybe if he just did not make optic contact, he might not make it any worse. Nothing happened, for a nanoklik, but then the sound Jazz made was not a whimper, or a cry. Prowl looked up as the slave circled out from around the counter, an indecipherable expression on his face, he circled behind Prowl. Jazz picked up both still bundled chairs, and carried them back around. It took the Amalgus nanokliks to divest them of their packaging, and to set them upright, faster than Prowl’s quick processor could process. His doorwings drooped with relief. This had gone far better than he could have opened. Sighing very softly, he picked up his datapad and pushed back his stool.

 

“Stay,” Jazz ordered. Shocked, Prowl could think to do nothing but obey.

 

The slave reappeared less than a klik later, with two squirming mechlings in his arms. Prowl asked himself, who again was who, but then the bitlet with the broad audial fins levelled him with a glare, the Praxian knew this was Sunstreaker. Jazz deposited that mechling in the highchair farthest from Prowl, and then his brother in the other. They froze, and stared at each other, this was a new experience for them. Their little faceplates screwed up into identical scowls, and the Lord of Law winced, and waited for the eruption. None came, their progenitor nuzzled their helms and put small plates on their trays. Fuel proved the perfect distraction. Sideswipe, the mechling closest to Prowl, but still well out of reach, dove into his plate, shoving the fuel into his mouth with both servos... and sending it flying everywhere. A small energonball splattered against Prowl’s chassis. With his servos still up by his face, and his mouth full of tasty fuel, the mechling stared at his master’s chassis. Prowl did too, but only for a nanoklik. Taking a cloth from his subspace, the Lord of Law cleaned the fuel from his armour, and reached for his datapad. Jazz reset his vocalizer, Prowl turned slowly to face him.

 

“No datapads at mealtime.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The Lord of Law was not a stupid mech, he knew precisely what Jazz was doing. But knowing the Amalgus’ scheme did not give Prowl any fuel to foil him. Fuel, was precisely the problem. Those high chairs had doomed him. He had no doubt that the mech had been looking for some kind of an opening, and sure enough he had found it, because Prowl had forgotten to put those damnable chairs away. This was entirely his own fault. For a mech generally considered a genius, the Praxian was profoundly stupid. Prowl had told Jazz, stupidly he had told him, that he worked, and he recharged and fuelled only when he had to, and he worked still more, and this was how he intended to continue, and so Jazz had gone around, found a crack, and had straight up cornered, coerced him into sitting down for lunch. _Sitting_ , down for lunch. Prowl never bothered with lunch when he was at the Hall, and he had not intended to take much, if any. Most certainly he had not intended to stop his work. This was not just sitting down and fuelling, but putting his work down and _just_ fuelling. Barricade would never have thought to do this, their procreators had always worked through meals, when they had been bothered to fuel with their creations, and both brothers had integrated this... potentially bad habit into their adult vorns. Dedication was what his superiors had called it, habit was more accurate a term.

 

Jazz had figured out his master was not comfortable saying no to him, and now he was taking full advantage of this weakness. The Praxian felt begrudging respect for his cunning. At least he was not expecting Prowl to make conversation. Sideswipe was a cheerful mechling, and he enjoyed his fuel, at least what he got in his mouth. Prowl had given up trying to keep his armour clean. Once he was finished fuelling he was going to need a shower, or two. So would the mechling, or perhaps a sheepacron dip. These antics of Sideswipe were preferable to his twin’s intense stare. Sunstreaker had not taken his optics off the Lord of Law since he had been sat in the highchair, he was barely fuelling at all. It was absolutely humiliating to realized he felt intimidated by a mechling so young, but would could Prowl do? Their progenitor was keeping his optics on them, on all three of them, but he made no move to get Sideswipe under control, or to chastise Sunstreaker for his fixation. To be fair to Jazz, he was visibly strained, and Prowl also did not have the spark to command either bitlet. They were being normal sparklings, or the wild one was, the Praxian was wary the sparkling might try to murder him in his recharge.

 

That was a ridiculous notion. The mechling was much too young to have homicidal thoughts. Though he was evidently young enough to hate. More accurately, he had emerged in circumstances that gave him the inspiration to hate even young as he was. Prowl wondered how much they had seen, and he wondered how much their progenitor had not been able to save them from. Hoist had not done that particular exam on them, and he had not suggested it was necessary. Perhaps that meant Road Rash had kept his perversions focused on their progenitor, for the love of Primus, please let that be so. Still, how much of it had they _seen_ or _heard_? Would their earliest memory be of their progenitor being raped? It was a ghastly thought, and the Lord of Law put down his fork as he tried to erase it from his memory banks. No, thank you, no. He did not want to think about that. His battle computer weighed the odds, and Prowl forcefully redirected its focus to other questions before he got any results. Primus below, he did not want those results. They would come out in his recharge, no doubt, when he did not have conscious control over this component.

 

“Ya workin’,” Jazz accused. “Wit out screens or datapads. Impressive.”

 

“It was not my intention,” Prowl replied, feeling chastised, as the mech no doubt intended. He picked up his fork, knowing full well this mech was going to keep them all there until he had cleaned his plate. The Praxian resolved that he would sidestep this problem in the future by making his own plate. With smaller portions.

 

“Ya starin’ at yer fuel,” the Amalgus observed.

 

“Oh,” the Lord of Law mumbled, the mech was of course correct.

 

Prowl made a concerted effort to remain focused on the here and now. It was hard, he would have preferred to escape to the comfortable familiarity of his office than to remain here in stilted silence. Though, it was not exactly silent, Sideswipe was vocal about his delight in the meal, he babbled, it could have been binary, but Prowl thought it was whatever language their progenitor had taught them. At least Prowl had chosen a good meal for them. Though he would have been more delighted if the exuberant mechling was not quite as keen to share the noodles and energonballs with every surface of the kitchen. This might have been another of the progenitor’s tests, and Prowl was not keen on failing it. Jazz crooned softly at Sunstreaker, trying to get him to pay less attention to the Lord of Law, and more attention to his plate. Questions circled through Prowl’s helm on an infinite loop but he could not ask them with the mechlings present. Even if they were too young to understand, he could not imagine their progenitor wanting to talk about his degradation in front of them. He glanced a little mournfully at his datapad, and almost itched to reach for it, but finding some sort of peace with the Amalgus was important to him, and Prowl resolved to concede this meal. Only this one meal.

 

“This is hard for you,” the slave said, once his suspicious mechling finally decided to fuel.

 

“We never did this,” Prowl explained, with a flick of his doorwing. “When they did deign to join us, our procreators always had work at servo. Whether is was my our originator striking a deal, or our progenitor making a bid or a sale, we always fuelled in silence.”

 

“We did it every dark-cycle we were together,” Jazz replied, softly. Prowl knew he was not talking about himself and the sparklings. What did he say to this?

 

“Are your kin free?” the Lord of Law asked, the question escaping his vocalizer before his processor caught up with his glossa. Where could he hope to put them mechs if he tracked them down as slaves?

 

“They are,” the Amalgus replied. “They reach for me sometimes. Or they try. It’s hardest wit Ric, my twin, to keep’m in the dark. But I gotta.”

 

It was a relief hearing Jazz’s family was safe, but it was sparkbreaking knowing why he had felt the need to close himself off from the comfort of that familial bond, especially one as close as that of a twin bond. He was sane, remarkably so, given what he had face alone. Were they looking for him? Were their faces amongst the hoard that infiltrated the border to wreak havoc in Petrex on a regular basis? Prowl could not fault them if they were, in fact he might fault them if they were not trying to rescue their brother, their creation. Would his? Ha. It would have been a miracle if Crosscut had paid even a pittance for a ransom. Yes, it was fortunate neither he nor his brother had ever been botnapped. Crosscut did not negotiate with hoodlums, and he considered many, if not most “lesser” mechanisms hoodlums.

 

This had been his description of another businessmech, less connected, less wealthy than he, when their deal had fallen apart, after the other mech had dared counter Crosscut’s offer with one of his own. His progenitor would not have known what to do with a true hooligan. No, of course, he had a security detail to deal with such things. Adjudicus did not deign to deal with hooligans either, his clients were exclusively amongst the elite or faceless corporations, he relished nothing more than winning a case against a “lesser” mechanisms that dared to sue one of his clients. Prowl had learned everything he would ever need to know about deal making from them. He had learned from them that morality was fluid and grey. Though he had absolved not to sell his spark as easily as either of his procreators.

 

“Wah ah,” Sideswipe declared, and both Praxian and Amalgus, jerked their helms as the bitlet wriggled out of his straps and stood up.

 

“No!” They spoke the glyph in unison, though Jazz screamed it with fear. Prowl shot up, and stepped quickly. The mechling wobbled, precariously, and fell, safely into the Praxian’s arms.

 

“Ask when you want down,” Prowl admonished the mechling, his spark racing. In his servos the bitlet froze momentarily baffled to find himself held by this stranger. He smiled.

 

Jazz snatched him away from their master, nuzzled him fiercely. Too innocent to understand the spark attack he had given his progenitor, Sideswipe grabbed Jazz’s face and kissed with a loud smack. Prowl returned to his stool, as he waited for his own racing spark to slow. When he glanced over, the Lord of Law found Sunstreaker was staring at him again, perhaps even more murderous. There was no winning with that mechling. Looking shaky, Jazz leaned against the counter, holding his squirming creation tight. Considering how filthy the mechling was, oil covered him from helm to ped, it was not an easy task, and Sideswipe was not prepared to admit defeat. His progenitor looked like he was ready to drop.

 

“Oo fal!” He demanded. “Fal, fal!”

 

“Ya filthy bitty, ya ain’t go down anywhere except a bath,” Jazz replied. His intake vents were flared, as was his... minimal plating. The fear for his creation would not ebb in an instant. Perhaps he had pushed himself too far.

 

“No. Baf,” the meching argued, switching to the Praxian dialect. He was utterly petulant. Prowl thought it was a marvel that the little Amalgus could be such a normal sparkling in spite of the environment he had emerged in.

 

“Not negotiatin’,” the progenitor said. “Look ya made a mess o’ all of us.”

 

“Mm?” Sunstreaker hummed, and it occurred to the Praxian that he had not heard this mechling speak.

 

“Done?” Jazz asked and he freed the calmer mechling as he kept a firm hold on the bitlet’s twin. Sunstreaker made a face when Sideswipe hugged him, making a mess of him as well.

 

“I will clean this up, while you tend to them,” Prowl said.

 

“We, or he made the mess,” the Amalgus argued. “We outta, or I outta clean it up.”

 

“It is fine,” the Lord of Law replied.

 

It was another stalemate, but Prowl would win this one. Jazz had to take the mechlings to the bath, before Sideswipe got loose. The Amalgus was hardly fit to take on this task, in any case. He would have known it, but of course he would feel compelled to clean, maybe even if his creation had not made the mess. When he was finally alone, Prowl did not reach for his datapad, or a washcloth, not immediately. They had never had a family meal like this. As far as he knew, he had never made such a mess, and Prowl thought Barricade would have taken pleasure in retelling such a story if he ever had. Then again, he had not taken meals with his procreators until he had been older, Bluestreak’s age in fact, after he had already been thoroughly trained in proper conduct by joyless nursemechs. His procreators never should have created, it was a sentiment he and his brother both shared.

 

They had kindled for dynastic reasons, not that either came from noble lineage or had any titled to pass down. Before Prowl had even emerged they had written a contract, giving Barricade in bonding to the younger creation of a minor noble house, but Prowl’s brother had run off to the Enforcers had promptly after that fight, and before Adjudicus or Crosscut could reason with him, he had gotten involved with his mentor. That should have been a scandal, it would have been had their procreators not paid to suppress it. They had hoped to still make the bonding pact, regardless of the fact that Barricade no longer had seals, Prowl had heard them ranting, because to their angst, their eldest creation could not be bribed with promises of fortune and luxury. As a result their procreators had been forced to break the pact, and to lose all the gains they had been promised. Prowl was not sorry their scheme had failed, he was sorry it had failed because Barricade had attached himself to a mech like Sideways. Contrary to what his brother thought, Barricade could easily do better, and even if he could not, being alone was better than being with a mech like that. If one of the Enforcers under his command seduced and debauched a new recruit, Barricade would have the mech’s helm. Some how he did not see that this was precisely what had been done to him, Sideways had taken advantage of him when he had been young, and vulnerable.

 

Given Prowl’s defect, there had been no contract written for him, not even a minor house would want him to carry their heirs. Instead of fixing their hopes on a favourable bonding, they had fixed their hopes of climbing the social ladder on their second creation’s back. It was unfortunate for them, that though he had learned how to work from them, how to let nothing stop him from accomplishing his goals, they had not ingratiated themselves to Prowl, and his goals were very different from theirs. After Adjudicus had convinced him to take the post as Lord of Law, they had destroyed the last threat of respect or duty he had felt for either of them. The obscene way they had thrown credits about in the name of appearance, that had been the final straw. Ultimately, they had not raised him, or Barricade. Naturally there were nursemechs for that. Prowl did not remember any of these mechanisms fondly either. This glitch of his had seen even these mech turn up their olfactory ridges to him. As a result of their conduct during his sparklinghood, his mech-hood, he did not feel any need to cater to them or to bestow favours, not his procreators, not his nursemechs.

 

As he cleaned, his processor drifted from his aloof procreators, and back to his work. Jazz was strong to have survived this long, eighteen horrific vorns, with so much strength of spark left. That did not mean he was prepared to revisit even a fraction of the Pit he had lived, with a stranger, with a threat. Prowl felt like a slagtard for wanting to confront him on it. It had not been an accident that had seen the Lord of Law, prior to his appointment, interviewing suspects more often than victims. No one had been inclined to subject poor, traumatized mechs to _him_. Suspects, on the other servo, no one was too sorry about traumatizing them. There were strict guidelines governing what Enforcers could and could not do during interrogations, thought individual Enforcers interpreted these guidelines quite differently from one and other. Prowl had never found the need to be heavy servoed, or too push the code too far, without excessive force, he had still been very good at getting confessions. At one point, he had taken keen satisfaction in the process, but it had taken only one interrogation to leave him with a great loathing for this duty.

 

Though Prowl had never confessed this to any mechanism, and he had continued carrying on interrogations to the end of his tenure in Praxus’ Enforcers. In fact, it had been one of his private reasons for moving on from the Enforcers, when his current position had been offered to him. Seeing a mech kill himself across the table from you mid interview was not something even Prowl could just brush off. Violator, as the media had dubbed him, had been a serial rapist. On the second mega-cycle of his interrogation on the mech, as the then Enforcer had been listing off his crimes, Violator had killed himself. One reporter had suggested the mech had been unable to live with himself when faced with his guilt. Prowl was not convinced this was the case. In the decavorns through which he had committed his offences, and he had outwitted the Enforcers hunting for him, Violator had made a game out of the tear and the chase. When it had become clear he had been caught, there had been no further reason to play, and the rapist had ended the game on his terms.

 

Jazz had not reappeared by the time Prowl had finished the kitchen. Though questions still circled in his processor, and the ledger beckoned, the Lord of Law took himself off to his own washracks to rinse off the fuel Sideswipe had seen fit to splatter him with. It was drying, and making his plating itch. Prowl was tense, not so bad as he often got, he supposed, but he was tense, and the hot solvent that poured from the shower head and down his back was distinctly therapeutic. He luxuriated in the hot spray a while before he began to wash. As the Praxian’s servos ran over his shoulders, Prowl felt the scuff he had made. Before he returned to the Palace, Prowl would need to attend to this. The council, the Regents, they never stopped looking for weakness. Smokescreen, and Bluestreak, were too quick to worry as well. Though the youngling understood that Prowl had a terminal condition, and that he would not be at his side as long as either wanted, Bluestreak did not have the same understanding, and the Lord of Law had never found the courage to sit down and explain it to him. Seeing the white transfer still staining the tile, Prowl brushed it away, he was not dead yet. That brief surge of conviction and confidence faded quickly to place. He was not dead yet, but soon, the Lord of Law could not explain how he was so certain of this, but his spark and his processor were in completed agreement, his was running out of time.

 

The tension Prowl had felt wash away underwent a resurgence as his thoughts took this dark turn. He sighed as he left the shower and reached for his towel. Barricade called him a pessimist, Prowl thought the more accurate description would have been a fatalist. When he had been younger, when there had been a stellar-cycle’s or stellar-cycles’ gap between his crashes, the Praxian had dared to imagine that maybe the medics had been wrong, and maybe his self-repair systems could maintain the status quo, as was the case with most mechanisms and most glitches. No one had been with him when Prowl had gone into the medic for a routine examination after what had seemed like a minor crash, and had been told that the framework around his fault had begun to collapse. It had not occurred to him to bring along another as emotional support, even though he had only been newly graduated from the Enforcer Academy, and he and Barricade had recently renewed their relationship. His diagnosis should have excluded him from this function but his intellect had saved him. It had meant serving from the sidelines, he had never patrolled a beat. Even having been told that his processor was failing him, Prowl had pushed on, and up, and he had gone into every subsequent appointment had received each subsequent diagnosis wholly on his own. This was how he was meant to live, this was something he had always known.

 

Preferring whatever Pit was waiting to be unveiled in that datapad to musing any longer on the spectre that was his own mortality, Prowl dried himself quickly and went into the kitchen to retrieve his datapad. He held it in his servos as he considered the highchairs Jazz had defiantly set up. It had been pleasant, awkward and unbearable, but pleasant. The contradiction here was not lost on the Lord of Law. Prowl pictured how his procreators would have reacted had a sparkling dared to fling fuel had them, accidentally, or on purpose. They would have been, would even now be angry. The Praxian clearly remembered the last of their family dinners, his procreator had been working on some deal. Barricade had done something, something that had made Prowl laugh. What had resulted had been a joor’s long lecture on self-control, and respectability. When his elder brother had stormed off, while their progenitor had been mid-sentence, their originator had ordered him back, but Barricade had not obeyed. No, he had left, not just from the immaculate dining room, but the manor, and he had not come back. Prowl had made certain never to laugh in their presence again.

 

All the better they would never know any grand-creations. He was certainly not creating, and Barricade would not either. His brother had never bonded with Sideways, and was unlikely ever to at this stage. This might have been one of his reasons for staying with a mech he disliked or even loathed a good fraction of the time. Sideways was a mech he would never bond to so it was safe to stay with him. Their procreators had done an excellent job ensuring their lineage would die out with one generation. They had taught him young that he would be a fool to create. Not only did he risk passing his defect on to the next generation, he would likely die when they were young, so what was the point? No one worthy of their family would want him, anyways, not even as a stepcreator to their offspring, Prowl was miserable with sparklings after all. He made them cry, they made him crash, bonding, creating would be an utter waste, and an utter disaster...

 

“Ya get lost in ya helm, don’t ya?” Jazz asked, tone gentle, not accusatory.

 

“I...” Prowl said as the mech’s question snapped in back to the present. “Yes. I have a highly actively battle computer. It is difficult to disengage.”

 

“Sounds like my origin,” the slave replied. “Thank ya for catchin’ Sides. I couldn’t make it. Not without barrellin’ o’er Sunny.”

 

“He would most likely have come out of such a fall unscathed,” the Praxian replied, feeling uncomfortable with level of gratitude emitting from the other mech’s field. “I am glad I was close enough to assist.”

 

“Y’re awful at acceptin’ thanks,” Jazz said.

 

“I do not believe I have done anything remarkable,” Prowl replied.

 

“Depends on whose armour y’re wearin’,” the Amalgus said, looking as if he was under enormous pressure, and strain.

 

“I suppose you are right,” the Lord of Law acquiesced, though he did not like it. Praxians were better than the mechs this slave had experienced. Prowl believed this will all of his spark. “You look as though you might still benefit from rest.”

 

“Than why don’t we sit on the couch?” Jazz suggested.

 

“We?” Prowl asked.

 

“Just for a coupla kliks,” the slave said. Wondering what he wanted, the Praxian sat. They did not sit on the same couch, but they chose ends that were close enough to each other than conversation would not seem ridiculous. Prowl was afraid to learn what this mech cared deeply enough to ask for, and he was exacerbated with himself for his own cowardice.

 

“You have concerns?” The Praxian asked.

 

“Ya bought them so much it’s gonna overflow their berthroom when they get into it,” Jazz said. “I know some if it was extra... On purpose...”

 

“Hoist’s clinic runs a toy drive,” Prowl explained. “Anything your creations do not need can be passed on to him. I wanted you to have some choice.”

 

“I can’t imagine havin’ credits ‘nough to casually toss away thousands of shanix,” the Amalgus said.

 

“It would take considerably greater extravagances to threaten my financial acumen,” the Lord of Law said, flatly. “That account contains the sums paid to me as a Voice. It exists to be donated or shared. My household expenses are paid from another account.”

 

“What is a voice?” Jazz asked.

 

“I am one of the three regents of Praxus,” Prowl explained. “By ancient law, the Voices choose amongst themselves the benefice they receive for performing this duty. The others preferred a greater some, and me less. We came to a compromise that pleased no one.”

 

“Y’re a regent,” the slave murmured, there was bitterness when he spoke, he could not be faulted for it. “I knew that slagtard was dead. Didn’t know a mechlin’ took his place.”

 

“Yes, the mechling has very limited authority under the regency,” the Praxian explained. “He has another vorn before he can rule in his own voice, though still under the supervision of a council.”

 

“‘Til then ya gotta compromise wit the other two?” Jazz asked. “‘N no one gets what they really want?”

 

“That summarizes it aptly,” Prowl replied. “I am easily outvoted, I make compromises, or unpalatable deals to get some greater agreement made.”

 

“Sounds spark destroyin’,” the Amalgus said. The mech was dangerously perceptive.

 

“It is frustrating at times,” the Lord of Law replied, rather than confess to how true Jazz’s insight had been.

 

“This what ya work at, all light-cycle ‘n dark?” Jazz asked.

 

“Along with my duties as Lord of Law,” Prowl said.

 

“Do ya think those other mechs skip their fuel, in work late into the dark-cycle?” The slave asked.

 

“I doubt it,” the Praxian replied. This was a trap. “We have different priorities.”

 

“What’s yer priority?” Jazz asked.

 

“Ensuring Smokescreen grows into a good emperor,” Prowl said. “Better than Ego. Seeing the Auction permanently shuttered, and the Amalgii freed.”

 

“How?” The Amalgus asked. His posture had changed, he straightened and stared at Prowl with eerily bright optics. “You want to free us?”

 

“There are laws, even in war, and Praxus has broken nearly all of them,” the Lord of Law said. “If I could enforce these laws, on my own, I would, but my authority is not so great. To end the slavery, to give mechahood to your framekin before Smokescreen enters majority would require a unanimous vote amongst the Voices, and the council. It will not happen. The best I can do is shutter the Auction and to make the trade and possession in Amalgii cumbersome.”

 

“Ya have a plan,” Jazz guessed.

 

“Many,” Prowl replied, his ran a digit over his datapad. “I am always planning.”

 

***

 

He wanted to free them. Holy Primus. Jazz could not quite bring himself to believe it, his helm spun and for a nanoklik he wondered if he was going to crash himself. This mech had not lied to him, not yet. It made sense, Master Prowl had insisted he did not want an Amalgus, a slave, it made sense that he would be an abolitionist. The Amalgus found it hard to ventilate. This was not something he had even hoped for. His picture of Praxians was an image of decadence, vengeance and superiority. This idea that a Praxian, and thus almost certainly others, might actually take issue with what was being done to him and his framekin, it was difficult to process. Praxians were the villains of all his memory purges, to paint even one in a different light was difficult. Even learning what he had of his master, Jazz had a hard time holding to the belief that Master Prowl was not a monster, and he had only managed to half believe it by telling himself that this mech was an exception to the overall rule. Maybe he was not? Maybe there were more Praxians like him? If there were, where had they been when the brothels and factories had opened? When he had been raped again, and again?

 

“What’s on the datapad?” Jazz asked, frame tight and prickly.

 

“It is the ledger from the Auction,” Master Prowl replied.

 

“How’d ya get that?” The slave asked. He hunched his shoulders, and could not help but cringe. His tank rolled.

 

“It was seized by my office as part of the Temple of Primus’ investigation,” the Praxian explained. “Praxus has a long history with plague. Any outbreaks of any contagion must be investigated by the medic priests. If they find plague, and find evidence our laws have been broken, they bring the Hall of Justice in to investigate the criminal aspect of the outbreak. Medic Hoist accompanied them the mega-cycle after he treated you. They found enough faults to summon my investigators.”

 

“What does this mean?” Jazz asked.

 

“It means Auction operations are shut down, until the Temple and the Hall deliver their report to the Emperor and Voices,” Prowl replied. “Given how long these things can take, it may well be a vorn before it is complete, perhaps even longer. In the meantime the Temple will provide medical care, and the Hall will oversee the ongoing care of the Amalgii held in that Pit.”

 

“‘N in a vorn, ya hope the mechlin’ll free us,” the Amalgus said.

 

“That is my end plan,” the Lord of Law replied.

 

The plan relied on the judgment of a youngling, something Jazz did not think he could do easily. Master Prowl was coaching the mechling, obviously, but there were two others, two the Lord of Law did not seem to think would be on board with his plans. A vorn was a drop in a bucket in the over all life of a Cybertronian, but a great deal could happen in eighty-three stellar-cycles. Jazz had gone from free to slave in a mega-cycle, from rebellious to passive in a few stellar-cycles. If Master Prowl was not there to mentor the mechling, would he continue with his regent’s plan, in the event that the mech died before the vorn passed? Maybe, maybe not, it cemented in the Amalgus’ helm that he had to keep this mech alive. It was not just a matter of his bitties, and his own survival, but the future of his framekin. His master needed to live, and he seemed set on working himself to death. They had a Pit of a battle ahead of them.

 

“Can ya level wit me?” Jazz asked. “Do ya really got a shot at this?”

 

“I do not take up fights I cannot win,” Prowl replied.

 

“Anythin’ I can do?” the slave asked. Was that why he did not fight his glitch, he did not chase for miracles, because he thought _he_ was a lost cause?

 

“Can you testify to your experiences?” The Lord of Law asked. “The overseers keep close to my investigators when they are on the Auction grounds. It makes it difficult to take meaning full statements.”

 

“Now?” Jazz asked, he made fists.

 

“And in front of a council session, the emperor will be in attendance,” Prowl said. “If you are not feeling well enough, we can wait for another mega-cycle.”

 

“It’s a lot for a younglin’ to hear,” the Amalgus replied.

 

“Smokescreen has not been permitted to be a mechling in vorns,” the Praxian said, was that regret in his voice? “How much you will need to say in between my reports and Medic Hoist’s remains to be seen.”

 

“Got a datapad ready?” Jazz asked. “‘Spose ya just wanna know ‘bout the Auction.”

 

“Anything you have to share,” Prowl replied. “Your treatment in Praxian servos, in general.”

 

“I got caught in the Wastes,” the slave said. He curled in legs up on the couch, and took a deep intake. “Scouts that caught me wanted me to lead them to my kin. I couldn’t, wouldn’t. Their commander said they outta have some fun wit me, maybe it would loosen my glossa. They raped me all dark-cycle, took vials o’ venom they got from dealers in Polihe so they kept goin’ for joors. In the light-cycle we joined up wit the rest of the battalion. There were other Amalgii they must o’ caught. They crammed us into a cargo container. After an orn or two in the dark, it opened up ‘n they passed us through the stockade to be recorded ‘n sold. That was my first sight o’ the Auction. Factory bought me, fresh off the transport. Tried to train me to bite some slaggin’ canister, so they could milk me. Make those vials like they sold outta black market stalls in Polihex. I escaped, a few times. Got beat, every time. They filed my digits so I couldn’t escape again. Sent me back to the Auction. I got bought by another factory. This one wasn’t just interested in my venom.”

 

“One of my investigators mentioned a rumour about that practice,” the Praxian replied. He looked uncomfortable, good, this was not fun for Jazz either. Rather than stare at the ground, the Amalgus stared at his master’s digits as he records the testimony.

 

“I tried to escape there too,” Jazz said. “Got beat there. Didn’t turn into a good ole Machadron. Only bit when I was starvin’, ‘n it wasn’t a fraggin’ can. They raped us too, trained us for the “collections”. Sometimes investors came in, sampled us. Called it a factory... Bunch a scrap. I ended up back in the Auction and that last investor I saw bought me for his brothel. He didn’t wanna train me for slag. Some mechs like to frag the unwilling. They want ya to fight. I fought. I bit when I was starvin’, only when I was starvin’, when I was mad wit hunger. They keep ya chained, so ya can fight, but ya can’t get away. They want ya to scream. When ya break, when ya stop fightin’ ‘n screamin’, they send ya to another floor. I wasn’t gonna break. Told myself I wouldn’t let’em turn me into a mechanimal. I was never gonna stop fightin’, ‘n I’d break outta the chains, break out, ‘n I’d get home, or die tryin’.”

 

Jazz tried not to thing of the details as he recounted his many rapes. That first dark-cycle, in the Praxian camp, he had committed the mechs’ scents and faceplates to memory, fully intent on avenging himself on them. In that horrible dark-cycle, he had not imagined that six hundred seventy-five thousand stellar-cycles later, he would still be captive to the Praxians, and that he had been raped near as many times as mega-cycles had passed since he had been free. The Amalgus had stopped counting, stopped memorizing faces and scent after the first vorn in the brothel, when the numbers had hit quintuple digits. It was more than that now, he knew, Road Rash alone had raped him at least that many times, almost certainly more. He felt sick, and Jazz dropped his helm to his knees, and tried to stop himself from retching. Prowl stood up, and the slave shrank back. But this master did not try to touch him. Instead, he left Jazz sitting on the couch as he tried to control his tank. When he knew he was losing, the Amalgus rose but his helm spun and he fell to his knees. A bucket was under him, and Jazz clung to it as he purged the contents of his tank.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered when he had control of himself again.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Prowl replied. “We can continue later.”

 

“Ain’t ever gonna be easier,” Jazz said. “‘M gonna go to the washrack.”

 

“Take your time,” the Praxian replied.

 

His whole frame was shaking when he stood, but Jazz kept his peds. Before he could reach for the bucket, Master Prowl had it, and he was walking away to discard of it. Jazz stared after him, but his tank rolled again, and the Amalgus stumbled into the washracks, barely making it to the drain before his tanks purged again. There was nothing left in them, and it hurt as his tank contracted over and over. He curled up in a ball on the washracks floor, shivering. It was like he had purged the last of his frame’s resources. Everything ached, Jazz could not imagine moving. For a while he laid there, wondering if he was ever going to feel strong enough to stand. Whether it was speaking about it, thinking about it, or the act of purging that had exhausted him, the slave did not know, but as it was he could not imagine moving. He had not idea how much time passed before the washracks door opened, and Jazz curled up tighter, unable or unwilling to online his optics. A blanket fell over him, and the slave turned his helm.

 

“Can you stand?” Master Prowl asked. Jazz lifted his helm, shook it slowly, and lowered it back to the floor. He was so, so tired. “Can I help you sit up?”

 

“Okay,” Jazz said, his voice crackled under the strain of just that one glyph. His master wrapped the blanket fully around him as he lifted Jazz upright. A cube was pressed into his servos, and the Amalgus rinsed out his mouth. As he let his helm fall back, it hit the taller mech shoulder. Before the slave could recoil, a cool servo touched Jazz’s helm, and he sighed.

 

“You’re overheating again,” the Praxian observed. “I will help you to your berth.”

 

It was an interesting reversal in their previous roles. Prowl seemed to live at his desk, but he was strong enough to lift Jazz, not just to his peds, but into his arms, with unexpected ease. The mech carried him from the washracks, an arm around his back, and another under his legs. He should have been fighting, Jazz thought as his helm spun, but he was too tired, too weak to even think about it. Master Prowl lowered him to his berth, and covered him with the blanket. Jazz could not stay in berth. His mechlings would wake up soon, he needed to see to them, but maybe a short rest. There was not much else he could do, his strength had been zapped from his frame. His master returned, a cube of medgrade in one servo, a cooling pad in the other. The Praxian left the cube on the berthside table, and placed the pad under Jazz’s neck.

 

“Medic Hoist will be over as soon as he is done with the light-cycle’s patients,” Master Prowl said.

 

“‘M okay,” the Amalgus replied. “Tired all o’ a sudden.”

 

“I believe you are havin’ a relapse,” the Lord of Law said.

 

“Oh,” Jazz murmured. “I... what ‘bout the Twins?”

 

“They did not appear unwell,” Prowl replied. “Do you think you can drink the medgrade?”

 

“Maybe?” The slave replied. His master reached for the cube, and helped Jazz sit up, just enough so that he could drink from the cube. The coolant heavy cool flowed down his raw intake, and settled in his tank. He laid back on the berth with a soft sigh. “Y’re good at this.”

 

“I have had some practice,” the Praxian replied.

 

“Barricade?” Jazz asked.

 

“Bluestreak,” Prowl said. Bluestreak? Jazz wondered who that could be, a younger sibling? He did not ask. Instead, he drifted into recharge.

 

Some time later, Jazz came back online, stiff, and sore, and as tired as he had been before. There was a presence in his helm, and he immediately engaged his firewalls, and went on the attack. Reassurances flooded his helm. Not a stranger, not an attacker, just Hoist. Jazz sighed, and he lowered his firewalls to allow the medic to continue his exam. He must have been worse off than he had thought if the medic had managed to plug into him, without the lifelong operative coming aware instantly. A datapocket was uploaded into his frame, and Jazz allowed the medical program to be installed. Hoist took direct control over his self-repair systems, though the Amalgus tried to stay aware, he drifted off, coming aware again when pain blockers were injected into his neck. As his aches slowly faded, Jazz felt the medic inject fresh coolant directly into his lines. Slowly, he onlined his optics, dimming them quickly, the light was insufferably bright.

 

“Could you?” Hoist asked. “Thank you, Baron. Jazz? It should be better.”

 

“Uh,” Jazz groaned, he onlined his optics again. The lights were turned down half as bright. When he spoke his voice was rough, the lining of his intake was raw. “Ya. Better.”

 

“Don’t try moving,” the medic ordered. “You developed a complication from the Pirexia. Your repair nanites turned on your frame. I’ve reprogrammed them, and replaced your coolant volume so you should start feeling better in a few joors. You need to rest. Any stress could trigger another response.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” the Amalgus replied.

 

“A patient that listens to me,” Hoist said, he glanced over to Master Prowl. “What a refreshing change.”

 

“Are my bitties alright?” Jazz asked. He smiled a little at the barb, his master did not rise to it, which would surprise no one.

 

“They’re doing better than I could have hoped,” the x-frame replied. “Their colouring is already improving. They’re happy little things.”

 

“That’s somethin’,” the slave sighed. “Gonna be interestin’ tryin’ to keep up wit them, wit’out scrappin’ myself.”

 

“Do your best,” Hoist replied. “I don’t want you out of berth, at least until the light-cycle, and then the most you can do is walk over and sit on the couch. Absolutely _nothing_ else.”

 

His master showed the medic out. With the blocker, new coolant, and the reprogramming of his self-repair systems, Jazz felt better than he had. Still, he knew better than to jump out of berth just yet. He had to get healthy, quickly, for them. The Amalgus laid have, the cooling pad still under his neck. Who was Bluestreak? It was hard to picture Master Prowl, a mech who worked himself into stasis, taking the time to nurse a sickly mech or mechling. Maybe Bluestreak had been a younglinghood sweetspark, maybe a younger sibling... maybe. Probing into his master’s personal life seemed risky. Though if the mech did not want to answer, he probably just would not. Master Prowl could be insufferable, Jazz could see that already. But knowing what he was working on, at least part of it, had the slave feeling genuine respect and gratitude for the Praxian. That did not mean he wanted to see Master Prowl working himself into collapse. Stuck in his sick berth though, Jazz was unsure what he could do about it.

 

“Your creations are painting,” Master Prowl said when he returned. He present Jazz with a tablet. “It has access to the data-net. In case you were to get bored.”

 

“Ya really shouldn’t be givin’ me this,” Jazz replied. “Ya could get slag for it.”

 

“It is not against the law,” the Praxian replied. “I would know. I am not concerned with what you do with it. I expect if you ever saw the right opening, you would make your escape. I would not fault you for it.”

 

“Ya’d be happy to have your privacy back,” the slave said. “I realized after the last time, just how far away from home I am. There’s so far to go, ‘n a fraggin’ brand means I can make myself look like a Praxian but anyone who takes a look at me’ll know. When they emerged, it go even harder to imagine how I could pull it off. If I failed, I’d lose’em. He tested me... he knew he had me beat...”

 

“Road Rash,” Prowl said.

 

“Guess he’s on the ledger,” Jazz sighed. “He wanted a frag toy to warm his berth, someone who couldn’t say no. Don’t know why the frag he fancied me, I was far from an obedient buymech. He bought my contract, took me home. Put some crystal armour on me, tied me to his berth, fragged me a coupla times, ‘n went into recharged. I slipped the ropes, ‘n climbed out the window. They found me after an orn. It was the farthest I got, the longest I was out. But they found me, gave me back to ‘m ‘n he beat me wit his flay ‘til every component in my back ruptured. I was sure I was a dead mech, but I couldn’t even be sorry for it. I lived, ‘cause he brought in a medic to fix his toy. Whene’er he went too far he brought that medic in. Kept me in the brothel after that though, he didn’t want bars on his windows.”

 

“How did you come to have the mechlings?” The Lord of Law asked.

 

“Road Rash really did want me in his berth, at home,” the Amalgus replied. “But I was still fightin’. He figured puttin’ a bitty in my forge was the ticket. He tried, nothin’ took. Held a breedin’ party, ‘n sold tickets. Didn’t take for any o’em either. So he rented a slave from another floor, Free Wheeler’d stopped fightin’em, don’t know if he ever had. We never actually spoke. He didn’t fight when Road Rash made me rape’m while he raped me. Didn’t fight a single time. Road Rash didn’t stop ‘til Free Wheeler took, then he sent’m back to his floor to carry out his term. I heard rumours. Slaves down there had more freedoms, least they weren’t chained to the wall or berth. He took every poison he could find, starved himself til they forced vitae energon down his throat. Someone got’m Gideon’s Glue. He took it when he entered emergence. He took it in front of Road Rash, stared’m dead on while he took the poison. Dropped dead then and there. Braver mech than me. The slagtard dragged me to his frame, told me I had a choice. I cut them out of his frame. I... it was the wrong choice. Nanoklik they unfurled. He had me. If I wanted fuel for’em I had to do what he wanted.”

 

“I am sorry,” Prowl said. “He is a despicable mech.”

 

“Ya know’m?” Jazz asked, pushing up onto his arms.

 

“Down,” the Lord of Law said, he held his servo out, but he did not touch Jazz. “Medic Hoist will have my helm if you collapse again. Road Rash struck a servant with that flail. The mech was damaged seriously enough that charges were filed, despite the mech’s connections, and he was brought before my office.”

 

“You made one of those deals,” the Amalgus guessed, rough voice rougher for the anger that stirred in his tank. If Road Rash had gone into detention...

 

“His progenitor is another Voice,” Prowl replied. “Yes, I made a deal.”

 

“Didn’t realize he was noble,” Jazz said, frowning.

 

“He is not,” the Praxian replied. “He is illegitimate. In an example of the absurdity of Praxian legal code, his originator was sentenced to detention and hard labour for giving emergence to him, his progenitor was fined. Five vorns into his sentence, the mech who gave emergence to him died, he had been one of Duke Gauntlet’s servants.”

 

“That ain’t right,” the slave said.

 

“You are correct.” Prowl replied. “Emerging outside of bonding is no longer be punishable by detention.”

 

“You changed the law,” Jazz guessed, and he smiled a little.

 

“I slipped it in to a larger reform,” the Lord of Law explained. “Which I made another compromise to pass.”

 

“What was the compromise?” The Amalgus asked.

 

“I had two edicts up for review at the same time,” Prowl explained. “They were so scandalized by the first, that they signed the second without serious overview. They thought I was address the loss of the Smelting Pit. I did, but I was more focused on modernizing our penal code. When it was released, they were angry, aghast but the public were very receptive to it, so my amendments stayed.”

 

“Y’re good at this slag, ain’t ya?” Jazz said.

 

“I try to be,” the Praxian replied. “Rest. I will bring you and the mechlings fuel in a little while.”

 

He tried. What an oddly vulnerable statement. Jazz was leery of trusting their master to bring dinner, and he was wondering how they would manage while he was stuck in this berth, but there was no question that his systems were strained, and needed time to recover. Even if he wanted to get up, the Amaglus was confident his legs would buckle under him. They had been trying, for the better part of the last mega-cycle, he had passed it off as stress. Ratchet would have had his helm, Hoist was a softer touch, but Jazz did not doubt he could have a temper with the right trigger. Feeling so slagged, the slave missed the grumpy medic, as much as he missed is own origin. Master Prowl’s response to his talks of his failed escapes did not entirely surprise him. No, it did not surprise him at all. If the right moment came, the Lord of Law might actually help them go.

 

If he asked Master Prowl now, he might even help. As tempting as the thought was, Jazz thought better of it. The capital was on the very opposite end of the empire from the Wastes. It was an impossibly far way to go without an escort. There would have to be a very good reason for the Lord of Law to go there. Since the other regents and council most likely knew already, and if not, would soon know his stance on slavery, it would be suspicious, even damaging, for him to have slaves one mega-cycle and none the next. Amalgii were not permitted to roam free, not even under orders from their masters, the Praxian would likely be charged, imprisoned, stripped of his positions if he was caught abetting the delinquency of an Amalgus. Jazz could be patient, he had survived this long, survived worse masters. While he and his creations gained their strength, the slave would help their master on the path to freeing their framekin. If nothing else, in a vorn, if Master Prowl accomplished what he was set to do, they would be free. After eighteen vorns a slave, one more was not so long a time. Should no other chance present itself, it was not so long a time to wait.

 

Provided Jazz could keep the mech alive that long, in any case. He dosed off, and jerked online suddenly as he heard a high pitched, inarticulate shriek of rage. It was Sunstreaker, Jazz pushed himself up, and almost got himself upright when Master Prowl appeared with his chassis, and face splattered with paint, and a bemused Sideswipe in his servos. Glyphlessly, his master deposited the mechling on the berth, turned, and left. There were more shrieks, quiet, indecipherable speech, and even more shrieks, and crashes and clnags. When the Praxian reappeared, he was carrying Sunstreaker, who had his denta latched on to his servo. From the paint covering his mechling’s servos, Jazz guessed right away who was responsible for the paint covering their master.

 

“Sunny,” Jazz scolded his creation as the mechling released the Lord of Law’s servo so he could be deposited in his progenitor’s servos. “No bitin’, bitlet.”

 

“I am fairly sure he was cursing at me,” Master Prowl said. He knelt and Jazz was about to question why when his pulled a cloth from his subspace and quickly cleaned the paint from Sunstreaker’s servos.

 

“It’s possible,” the progenitor replied. “Sunny, he gave ya those paints, that’s naughty.”

 

“Uh oh,” Sideswipe giggled.

 

“I will be back with your dinner,” the Praxian said.

 

He was not nearly as put off by the mechling’s attack as he ought to have been. Master Prowl might have been too reasonable, too forgiving. His conscience, Jazz thought, could be his undoing. Although the Praxian did not appear to be particularly easily to manipulate. The slave leaned back against the headboard, as he kept his creations under control. This virus had done a number on him, he never recalled ever being so ill, but then his origin had always kept him well fuelled, and Ratchet had kept them all up to date on inoculations. It was just lucky their had this mech for a master. Road Rash would have let them die. If not Jazz, the mechlings for certain. Odd as it might have been to be grateful to be owned, he was grateful to be owned by this mech, only this mech. Master Prowl returned with three plates with crescents of energon dough filled with sauce and ore filling. Staring right at their master, Sunstreaker turned his olfactory ridge up at his plate, and pushed it away.

 

“Sunstreaker,” Jazz said. “That’s ya dinner, yer gonna eat it, bitlet.”

 

“Meh,” Sunstreaker sneered.

 

“Call me when you are done,” Master Prowl said. “And I will collect the dishes.”

 

“Why don’t ya come back wit yer own plate?” The Amalgus asked. He broke off a piece of the crescent and held it up to Sunstreaker, the mechling took it, and gave Prowl a long look. Jazz took the morsel back, and popped it into his creation’s mouth. “For eatin’, not throwin’.”

 

“He will feel better without me present,” the Lord of Law said.

 

Sunstreaker relaxed almost as soon as their master walked out the door. He was a funny mech. A good one, Jazz was coming to accept, but a funny one. That glitch had moulded him, or it had been used to mould him. Somehow it had not made him completely hard, though it had made him cold, and remote. Somehow, he was kind in his own stilted way. The mechlings shared Jazz’s lap as they ate, oblivious to the complications their progenitor was experiencing. They were young, they did not need to know. How he was going to manage them, Jazz did not know. As a young mech, the Amalgus had not really thought much of procreatorhood, he had not imagined creating but he had always assumed that if he did choose to have a family, his originator and twin would be nearby, he had never imagined being apart from them for so long, and he had never imagined raising creations so completely on his own.

 

“Maybe I can find somethin’ we can watch,” Jazz thought out loud as he picked up the tablet, after the mechlings had finished their fuel. He found a streaming app, and scrolled through the collection for something tolerable. A cartoon staring a lilleth, and a retrorat seemed safe enough, he set it on to play. The Twins looked at the screen, they never seen a cartoon before. “Why don’t we cuddle ‘n see what trouble these two get into? I think a cuddle’s just what I need.”

 

 


End file.
